THE GHOST-SHIP

by Richard Middleton

 Thanks are due to the Editors of _The Century_, _English Review_, _Vanity Fair_, and _The Academy_, for permission to reproduce most of the stories in this volume. 

Preface

The other day I said to a friend, "I have just been reading in proofa volume of short stories by an author named Richard Middleton. He isdead. It is an extraordinary book, and all the work in it is full ofa quite curious and distinctive quality. In my opinion it is veryfine work indeed. "

It would be so simple if the business of the introducer orpreface-writer were limited to such a straightforward, honest, anddirect expression of opinion; unfortunately that is not so. For mostof us, the happier ones of the world, it is enough to say "I likeit, " or "I don't like it, " and there is an end: the critic has toanswer the everlasting "Why?" And so, I suppose, it is my office, in this present instance, to say why I like the collection of talesthat follows. 

I think that I have found a hint as to the right answer in two ofthese stories. One is called "The Story of a Book, " the other "TheBiography of a Superman. " Each is rather an essay than a tale, thoughthe form of each is narrative. The first relates the sad bewildermentof a successful novelist who feels that, after all, his great workwas something less than nothing. 

 He could not help noticing that London had discovered the secret which made his intellectual life a torment. The streets were more than a mere assemblage of houses, London herself was more than a tangled skein of streets, and overhead heaven was more than a meeting-place of individual stars. What was this secret that made words into a book, houses into cities, and restless and measurable stars into an unchanging and immeasurable universe?

Then from "The Biography of a Superman" I select this very strikingpassage:--

 Possessed of an intellect of great analytic and destructive force, he was almost entirely lacking in imagination, and he was therefore unable to raise his work to a plane in which the mutually combative elements of his nature might have been reconciled. His light moments of envy, anger, and vanity passed into the crucible to come forth unchanged. He lacked the magic wand, and his work never took wings above his conception. 

Now compare the two places; "the streets were more than a mereassemblage of houses;" . . . "his light moments . . . Passed into thecrucible to come forth unchanged. He lacked the magic wand. " I thinkthese two passages indicate the answer to the "why" that I am forcedto resolve; show something of the secret of the strange charm which"The Ghost-Ship" possesses. 

It delights because it is significant, because it is no mereassemblage of words and facts and observations and incidents, itdelights because its matter has not passed through the crucibleunchanged. On the contrary, the jumble of experiences and impressionswhich fell to the lot of the author as to us all had assuredly beenplaced in the athanor of art, in that furnace of the sages which issaid to be governed with wisdom. Lead entered the burning of thefire, gold came forth from it. 

This analogy of the process of alchemy which Richard Middleton hashimself suggested is one of the finest and the fittest for ourpurpose; but there are many others. The "magic wand" analogy comes tomuch the same thing; there is the like notion of something ugly andinsignificant changed to something beautiful and significant. Something ugly; shall we not say rather something formless transmutedinto form! After all, the Latin Dictionary declares solemnly that"beauty" is one of the meanings of "forma" And here we are away fromalchemy and the magic wand ideas, and pass to the thought of thefirst place that I have quoted: "the streets were more than a mereassemblage of houses, " The puzzle is solved; the jig-saw--I thinkthey call it--has been successfully fitted together, There in a boxlay all the jagged, irregular pieces, each in itself crazy andmeaningless and irritating by its very lack of meaning: now we seeeach part adapted to the other and the whole is one picture and onepurpose. 

But the first thing necessary to this achievement is the recognitionof the fact that there is a puzzle. There are many people who gothrough life persuaded that there isn't a puzzle at all; that it wasonly the infancy and rude childhood of the world which dreamed a vaindream of a picture to be made out of the jagged bits of wood, Therenever has been a picture, these persons say, and there never will bea picture, all we have to do is to take the bits out of the box, lookat them, and put them back again. Or, returning to RichardMiddleton's excellent example: there is no such thing as London, there are only houses. No man has seen London at any time; the veryword (meaning "the fort on the lake") is nonsensical; no human eyehas ever beheld aught else but a number of houses; it is clear thatthis "London" is as mythical and monstrous and irrational a conceptas many others of the same class. Well, people who talk like that aredoubtless sent into the world for some useful but mysterious process;but they can't write real books. Richard Middleton knew that therewas a puzzle; in other words, that the universe is a great mystery;and this consciousness of his is the source of the charm of "TheGhost Ship. "

I have compared this orthodox view of life and theuniverse and the fine art that results from this view to the solvingof a puzzle; but the analogy is not an absolutely perfect one. For ifyou buy a jig-saw in a box in the Haymarket, you take it home withyou and begin to put the pieces together, and sooner or later thetoil is over and the difficulties are overcome: the picture is clearbefore you. Yes, the toil is over, but so is the fun; it is but poorsport to do the trick all over again. And here is the vastinferiority of the things they sell in the shops to the universe: ourgreat puzzle is never perfectly solved. We come across marvelloushints, we join line to line and our hearts beat with the rapture of agreat surmise; we follow a certain track and know by sure signs andsignals that we are not mistaken, that we are on the right road; weare furnished with certain charts which tell us "here there bewater-pools, " "here is a waste place, " "here a high hill riseth, " andwe find as we journey that so it is. But, happily, by the very natureof the case, we can never put the whole of the picture together, wecan never recover the perfect utterance of the Lost Word, we cannever say "here is the end of all the journey. " Man is so made thatall his true delight arises from the contemplation of mystery, andsave by his own frantic and invincible folly, mystery is never takenfrom him; it rises within his soul, a well of joy unending. 

Hence it is that the consciousness of this mystery, resolved into theform of art, expresses itself usually (or always) by symbols, by thepart put for the whole. Now and then, as in the case of Dante, as itwas with the great romance-cycle of the Holy Graal, we have a senseof completeness. With the vision of the Angelic Rose and the sentenceconcerning that Love which moves the sun and the other stars there isthe shadow of a catholic survey of all things; and so in a lessdegree it is as we read of the translation of Galahad. Still, theRose and the Graal are but symbols of the eternal verities, not thoseverities themselves in their essences; and in these later days whenwe have become clever--with the cleverness of the Performing Pig--itis a great thing to find the most obscure and broken indications ofthe things which really are. There is the true enchantment of trueromance in the Don Quixote--for those who can understand--but it isdelivered in the mode of parody and burlesque; and so it is with theextraordinary fantasy, "The Ghost-Ship, " which gives its name to thiscollection of tales. Take this story to bits, as it were; analyse it;you will be astonished at its frantic absurdity: the ghostly galleonblown in by a great tempest to a turnip-patch in Fairfield, a littlevillage lying near the Portsmouth Road about half-way between Londonand the sea; the farmer grumbling at the loss of so many turnips; thecaptain of the weird vessel acknowledging the justice of the claimand tossing a great gold brooch to the landlord by way of satisfyingthe debt; the deplorable fact that all the decent village ghostslearned to riot with Captain Bartholomew Roberts; the visit of theparson and his godly admonitions to the Captain on the evil work hewas doing; mere craziness, you will say?

Yes; but the strange thing is that as, in spite of all jocose tricksand low-comedy misadventures, Don Quixote departs from us with agreat light shining upon him; so this ghost-ship of RichardMiddleton's, somehow or other, sails and anchors and re-sails in anunearthly glow; and Captain Bartholomew's rum that was like hot oiland honey and fire in the veins of the mortals who drank of it, hasbecome for me one of the _nobilium poculorum_ of story. And thus didthe ship put forth from the village and sail away in a great tempestof wind--to what unimaginable seas of the spirit!

 The wind that had been howling outside like an outrageous dog had all of a sudden turned as melodious as the carol-boys of a Christmas Eve. 

 We went to the door, and the wind burst it open so that the handle was driven clean into the plaster of the wall. But we didn't think much of that at the time; for over our heads, sailing very comfortably through the windy stars, was the ship that had passed the summer in landlord's field. Her portholes and her bay-window were blazing with lights, and there was a noise of singing and fiddling on her decks. "He's gone, " shouted landlord above the storm, "and he's taken half the village with him!" I could only nod in answer, not having lungs like bellows of leather. 

I declare I would not exchange this short, crazy, enchanting fantasyfor a whole wilderness of seemly novels, proclaiming in decorousaccents the undoubted truth that there are milestones on thePortsmouth Road. 

 Arthur Machen. 

The Ghost-Ship

Fairfield is a little village lying near the Portsmouth Road abouthalf-way between London and the sea. Strangers who find it byaccident now and then, call it a pretty, old-fashioned place; we wholive in it and call it home don't find anything very pretty about it, but we should be sorry to live anywhere else. Our minds have takenthe shape of the inn and the church and the green, I suppose. At allevents we never feel comfortable out of Fairfield. 

Of course the Cockneys, with their vasty houses and noise-riddenstreets, can call us rustics if they choose, but for all thatFairfield is a better place to live in than London. Doctor says thatwhen he goes to London his mind is bruised with the weight of thehouses, and he was a Cockney born. He had to live there himself whenhe was a little chap, but he knows better now. You gentlemen maylaugh--perhaps some of you come from London way--but it seems to methat a witness like that is worth a gallon of arguments. 

Dull? Well, you might find it dull, but I assure you that I'velistened to all the London yarns you have spun tonight, and they'reabsolutely nothing to the things that happen at Fairfield. It'sbecause of our way of thinking and minding our own business. If oneof your Londoners were set down on the green of a Saturday night whenthe ghosts of the lads who died in the war keep tryst with the lasseswho lie in the church-yard, he couldn't help being curious andinterfering, and then the ghosts would go somewhere where it wasquieter. But we just let them come and go and don't make any fuss, and in consequence Fairfield is the ghostiest place in all England. Why, I've seen a headless man sitting on the edge of the well inbroad daylight, and the children playing about his feet as if he weretheir father. Take my word for it, spirits know when they are welloff as much as human beings. 

Still, I must admit that the thing I'm going to tell you about wasqueer even for our part of the world, where three packs ofghost-hounds hunt regularly during the season, and blacksmith'sgreat-grandfather is busy all night shoeing the dead gentlemen'shorses. Now that's a thing that wouldn't happen in London, because oftheir interfering ways, but blacksmith he lies up aloft and sleeps asquiet as a lamb. Once when he had a bad head he shouted down to themnot to make so much noise, and in the morning he found an old guinealeft on the anvil as an apology. He wears it on his watch-chain now. But I must get on with my story; if I start telling you about thequeer happenings at Fairfield I'll never stop. 

It all came of the great storm in the spring of '97, the year that wehad two great storms. This was the first one, and I remember it verywell, because I found in the morning that it had lifted the thatch ofmy pigsty into the widow's garden as clean as a boy's kite. When Ilooked over the hedge, widow--Tom Lamport's widow that was--wasprodding for her nasturtiums with a daisy-grubber. After I hadwatched her for a little I went down to the "Fox and Grapes" to telllandlord what she had said to me. Landlord he laughed, being amarried man and at ease with the sex. "Come to that, " he said, "thetempest has blowed something into my field. A kind of a ship Ithink it would be. "

I was surprised at that until he explained that it was only aghost-ship and would do no hurt to the turnips. We argued thatit had been blown up from the sea at Portsmouth, and then wetalked of something else. There were two slates down at theparsonage and a big tree in Lumley's meadow. It was a rarestorm. 

I reckon the wind had blown our ghosts all over England. They were coming back for days afterwards with foundered horsesand as footsore as possible, and they were so glad to get backto Fairfield that some of them walked up the street crying likelittle children. Squire said that his great-grandfather'sgreat-grandfather hadn't looked so dead-beat since the battleof Naseby, and he's an educated man. 

What with one thing and another, I should think it was a week beforewe got straight again, and then one afternoon I met the landlord onthe green and he had a worried face. "I wish you'd come and have alook at that ship in my field, " he said to me; "it seems to me it'sleaning real hard on the turnips. I can't bear thinking what themissus will say when she sees it. "

I walked down the lane with him, and sure enough there was aship in the middle of his field, but such a ship as no man hadseen on the water for three hundred years, let alone in themiddle of a turnip-field. It was all painted black and coveredwith carvings, and there was a great bay window in the sternfor all the world like the Squire's drawing-room. There was acrowd of little black cannon on deck and looking out of herport-holes, and she was anchored at each end to the hardground. I have seen the wonders of the world on picture-postcards, but I have never seen anything to equal that. 

"She seems very solid for a ghost-ship, " I said, seeing the landlordwas bothered. 

"I should say it's a betwixt and between, " he answered, puzzling itover, "but it's going to spoil a matter of fifty turnips, and missusshe'll want it moved. " We went up to her and touched the side, and itwas as hard as a real ship. "Now there's folks in England would callthat very curious, " he said. 

Now I don't know much about ships, but I should think that thatghost-ship weighed a solid two hundred tons, and it seemed to methat she had come to stay, so that I felt sorry for landlord, who wasa married man. "All the horses in Fairfield won't move her out of myturnips, " he said, frowning at her. 

Just then we heard a noise on her deck, and we looked up and saw thata man had come out of her front cabin and was looking down at us verypeaceably. He was dressed in a black uniform set out with rusty goldlace, and he had a great cutlass by his side in a brass sheath. "I'mCaptain Bartholomew Roberts, " he said, in a gentleman's voice, "putin for recruits. I seem to have brought her rather far up theharbour. "

"Harbour!" cried landlord; "why, you're fifty miles from the sea. "

Captain Roberts didn't turn a hair. "So much as that, is it?" he saidcoolly. "Well, it's of no consequence. "

Landlord was a bit upset at this. "I don't want to be unneighbourly, "he said, "but I wish you hadn't brought your ship into my field. Yousee, my wife sets great store on these turnips. "

The captain took a pinch of snuff out of a fine gold box that hepulled out of his pocket, and dusted his fingers with a silkhandkerchief in a very genteel fashion. "I'm only here for a fewmonths, " he said; "but if a testimony of my esteem would pacify yourgood lady I should be content, " and with the words he loosed a greatgold brooch from the neck of his coat and tossed it down to landlord. 

Landlord blushed as red as a strawberry. "I'm not denying she's fondof jewellery, " he said, "but it's too much for half a sackful ofturnips. " And indeed it was a handsome brooch. 

The captain laughed. "Tut, man, " he said, "it's a forced sale, andyou deserve a good price. Say no more about it;" and nodding good-dayto us, he turned on his heel and went into the cabin. Landlord walkedback up the lane like a man with a weight off his mind. "That tempesthas blowed me a bit of luck, " he said; "the missus will be muchpleased with that brooch. It's better than blacksmith's guinea, anyday. "

Ninety-seven was Jubilee year, the year of the second Jubilee, youremember, and we had great doings at Fairfield, so that we hadn'tmuch time to bother about the ghost-ship though anyhow it isn't ourway to meddle in things that don't concern us. Landlord, he saw histenant once or twice when he was hoeing his turnips and passed thetime of day, and landlord's wife wore her new brooch to church everySunday. But we didn't mix much with the ghosts at any time, allexcept an idiot lad there was in the village, and he didn't know thedifference between a man and a ghost, poor innocent! On Jubilee Day, however, somebody told Captain Roberts why the church bells wereringing, and he hoisted a flag and fired off his guns like a loyalEnglishman. 'Tis true the guns were shotted, and one of the roundshot knocked a hole in Farmer Johnstone's barn, but nobody thoughtmuch of that in such a season of rejoicing. 

It wasn't till our celebrations were over that we noticed thatanything was wrong in Fairfield. 'Twas shoemaker who told me firstabout it one morning at the "Fox and Grapes. " "You know my greatgreat-uncle?" he said to me. 

"You mean Joshua, the quiet lad, " I answered, knowing him well. 

"Quiet!" said shoemaker indignantly. "Quiet you call him, coming homeat three o'clock every morning as drunk as a magistrate and waking upthe whole house with his noise. "

"Why, it can't be Joshua!" I said, for I knew him for one of the mostrespectable young ghosts in the village. 

"Joshua it is, " said shoemaker; "and one of these nights he'll findhimself out in the street if he isn't careful. "

This kind of talk shocked me, I can tell you, for I don't like tohear a man abusing his own family, and I could hardly believe that asteady youngster like Joshua had taken to drink. But just then incame butcher Aylwin in such a temper that he could hardly drink hisbeer. "The young puppy! the young puppy!" he kept on saying; and itwas some time before shoemaker and I found out that he was talkingabout his ancestor that fell at Senlac. 

"Drink?" said shoemaker hopefully, for we all like company in ourmisfortunes, and butcher nodded grimly. 

"The young noodle, " he said, emptying his tankard. 

Well, after that I kept my ears open, and it was the same story allover the village. There was hardly a young man among all the ghostsof Fairfield who didn't roll home in the small hours of the morningthe worse for liquor. I used to wake up in the night and hear themstumble past my house, singing outrageous songs. The worst of it wasthat we couldn't keep the scandal to ourselves and the folk atGreenhill began to talk of "sodden Fairfield" and taught theirchildren to sing a song about us:

 "Sodden Fairfield, sodden Fairfield, has no use for bread-and-butter, Rum for breakfast, rum for dinner, rum for tea, and rum for supper!"

We are easy-going in our village, but we didn't like that. 

Of course we soon found out where the young fellows went to get thedrink, and landlord was terribly cut up that his tenant should haveturned out so badly, but his wife wouldn't hear of parting with thebrooch, so that he couldn't give the Captain notice to quit. But astime went on, things grew from bad to worse, and at all hours of theday you would see those young reprobates sleeping it off on thevillage green. Nearly every afternoon a ghost-wagon used to jolt downto the ship with a lading of rum, and though the older ghosts seemedinclined to give the Captain's hospitality the go-by, the youngsterswere neither to hold nor to bind. 

So one afternoon when I was taking my nap I heard a knock at thedoor, and there was parson looking very serious, like a man with ajob before him that he didn't altogether relish. "I'm going down totalk to the Captain about all this drunkenness in the village, and Iwant you to come with me, " he said straight out. 

I can't say that I fancied the visit much, myself, and I tried tohint to parson that as, after all, they were only a lot of ghosts itdidn't very much matter. 

"Dead or alive, I'm responsible for the good conduct, " he said, "andI'm going to do my duty and put a stop to this continued disorder. And you are coming with me John Simmons. " So I went, parson being apersuasive kind of man. 

We went down to the ship, and as we approached her I could see theCaptain tasting the air on deck. When he saw parson he took off hishat very politely and I can tell you that I was relieved to find thathe had a proper respect for the cloth. Parson acknowledged his saluteand spoke out stoutly enough. "Sir, I should be glad to have a wordwith you. "

"Come on board, sir; come on board, " said the Captain, and I couldtell by his voice that he knew why we were there. Parson and Iclimbed up an uneasy kind of ladder, and the Captain took us into thegreat cabin at the back of the ship, where the bay-window was. It wasthe most wonderful place you ever saw in your life, all full of goldand silver plate, swords with jewelled scabbards, carved oak chairs, and great chests that look as though they were bursting with guineas. Even parson was surprised, and he did not shake his head very hardwhen the Captain took down some silver cups and poured us out a drinkof rum. I tasted mine, and I don't mind saying that it changed myview of things entirely. There was nothing betwixt and between aboutthat rum, and I felt that it was ridiculous to blame the lads fordrinking too much of stuff like that. It seemed to fill my veins withhoney and fire. 

Parson put the case squarely to the Captain, but I didn't listen muchto what he said; I was busy sipping my drink and looking through thewindow at the fishes swimming to and fro over landlord's turnips. Just then it seemed the most natural thing in the world that theyshould be there, though afterwards, of course, I could see that thatproved it was a ghost-ship. 

But even then I thought it was queer when I saw a drowned sailorfloat by in the thin air with his hair and beard all full of bubbles. It was the first time I had seen anything quite like that atFairfield. 

All the time I was regarding the wonders of the deep parson wastelling Captain Roberts how there was no peace or rest in the villageowing to the curse of drunkenness, and what a bad example theyoungsters were setting to the older ghosts. The Captain listenedvery attentively, and only put in a word now and then about boysbeing boys and young men sowing their wild oats. But when parson hadfinished his speech he filled up our silver cups and said to parson, with a flourish, "I should be sorry to cause trouble anywhere where Ihave been made welcome, and you will be glad to hear that I put tosea tomorrow night. And now you must drink me a prosperous voyage. "So we all stood up and drank the toast with honour, and that noblerum was like hot oil in my veins. 

After that Captain showed us some of the curiosities he had broughtback from foreign parts, and we were greatly amazed, thoughafterwards I couldn't clearly remember what they were. And then Ifound myself walking across the turnips with parson, and I wastelling him of the glories of the deep that I had seen through thewindow of the ship. He turned on me severely. "If I were you, JohnSimmons, " he said, "I should go straight home to bed. " He has a wayof putting things that wouldn't occur to an ordinary man, has parson, and I did as he told me. 

Well, next day it came on to blow, and it blew harder and harder, till about eight o'clock at night I heard a noise and looked out intothe garden. I dare say you won't believe me, it seems a bit tall evento me, but the wind had lifted the thatch of my pigsty into thewidow's garden a second time. I thought I wouldn't wait to hear whatwidow had to say about it, so I went across the green to the "Fox andGrapes", and the wind was so strong that I danced along on tiptoelike a girl at the fair. When I got to the inn landlord had to helpme shut the door; it seemed as though a dozen goats were pushingagainst it to come in out of the storm. 

"It's a powerful tempest, " he said, drawing the beer. "I hear there'sa chimney down at Dickory End. "

"It's a funny thing how these sailors know about the weather, " Ianswered. "When Captain said he was going tonight, I was thinking itwould take a capful of wind to carry the ship back to sea, but nowhere's more than a capful. "

"Ah, yes, " said landlord, "it's tonight he goes true enough, and, mind you, though he treated me handsome over the rent, I'm not sureit's a loss to the village. I don't hold with gentrice who fetchtheir drink from London instead of helping local traders to get theirliving. "

"But you haven't got any rum like his, " I said, to draw him out. 

His neck grew red above his collar, and I was afraid I'd gone toofar; but after a while he got his breath with a grunt. 

"John Simmons, " he said, "if you've come down here this windy nightto talk a lot of fool's talk, you've wasted a journey. "

Well, of course, then I had to smooth him down with praising his rum, and Heaven forgive me for swearing it was better than Captain's. Forthe like of that rum no living lips have tasted save mine andparson's. But somehow or other I brought landlord round, andpresently we must have a glass of his best to prove its quality. 

"Beat that if you can!" he cried, and we both raised our glasses toour mouths, only to stop half-way and look at each other in amaze. For the wind that had been howling outside like an outrageous dog hadall of a sudden turned as melodious as the carol-boys of a ChristmasEve. 

"Surely that's not my Martha, " whispered landlord; Martha being hisgreat-aunt that lived in the loft overhead. 

We went to the door, and the wind burst it open so that the handlewas driven clean into the plaster of the wall. But we didn't thinkabout that at the time; for over our heads, sailing very comfortablythrough the windy stars, was the ship that had passed the summer inlandlord's field. Her portholes and her bay-window were blazing withlights, and there was a noise of singing and fiddling on her decks. "He's gone, " shouted landlord above the storm, "and he's taken halfthe village with him!" I could only nod in answer, not having lungslike bellows of leather. 

In the morning we were able to measure the strength of the storm, andover and above my pigsty there was damage enough wrought in thevillage to keep us busy. True it is that the children had to breakdown no branches for the firing that autumn, since the wind hadstrewn the woods with more than they could carry away. Many of ourghosts were scattered abroad, but this time very few came back, allthe young men having sailed with Captain; and not only ghosts, for apoor half-witted lad was missing, and we reckoned that he had stowedhimself away or perhaps shipped as cabin-boy, not knowing any better. 

What with the lamentations of the ghost-girls and the grumbling offamilies who had lost an ancestor, the village was upset for a while, and the funny thing was that it was the folk who had complained mostof the carryings-on of the youngsters, who made most noise now thatthey were gone. I hadn't any sympathy with shoemaker or butcher, whoran about saying how much they missed their lads, but it made megrieve to hear the poor bereaved girls calling their lovers by nameon the village green at nightfall. It didn't seem fair to me thatthey should have lost their men a second time, after giving up lifein order to join them, as like as not. Still, not even a spirit canbe sorry for ever, and after a few months we made up our mind thatthe folk who had sailed in the ship were never coming back, and wedidn't talk about it any more. 

And then one day, I dare say it would be a couple of years after, when the whole business was quite forgotten, who should cometrapesing along the road from Portsmouth but the daft lad who hadgone away with the ship, without waiting till he was dead to become aghost. You never saw such a boy as that in all your life. He had agreat rusty cutlass hanging to a string at his waist, and he wastattooed all over in fine colours, so that even his face looked likea girl's sampler. He had a handkerchief in his hand full of foreignshells and old-fashioned pieces of small money, very curious, and hewalked up to the well outside his mother's house and drew himself adrink as if he had been nowhere in particular. 

The worst of it was that he had come back as soft-headed as he went, and try as we might we couldn't get anything reasonable out of him. He talked a lot of gibberish about keel-hauling and walking theplank and crimson murders--things which a decent sailor should knownothing about, so that it seemed to me that for all his mannersCaptain had been more of a pirate than a gentleman mariner. But todraw sense out of that boy was as hard as picking cherries off acrab-tree. One silly tale he had that he kept on drifting back to, and to hear him you would have thought that it was the only thingthat happened to him in his life. "We was at anchor, " he would say, "off an island called the Basket of Flowers, and the sailors hadcaught a lot of parrots and we were teaching them to swear. Up anddown the decks, up and down the decks, and the language they usedwas dreadful. Then we looked up and saw the masts of the Spanishship outside the harbour. Outside the harbour they were, so we threwthe parrots into the sea and sailed out to fight. And all theparrots were drownded in the sea and the language they used wasdreadful. " That's the sort of boy he was, nothing but silly talk ofparrots when we asked him about the fighting. And we never had achance of teaching him better, for two days after he ran away again, and hasn't been seen since. 

That's my story, and I assure you that things like that are happeningat Fairfield all the time. The ship has never come back, but somehowas people grow older they seem to think that one of these windynights she'll come sailing in over the hedges with all the lostghosts on board. Well, when she comes, she'll be welcome. There's oneghost-lass that has never grown tired of waiting for her lad toreturn. Every night you'll see her out on the green, straining herpoor eyes with looking for the mast-lights among the stars. Afaithful lass you'd call her, and I'm thinking you'd be right. 

Landlord's field wasn't a penny the worse for the visit, but they dosay that since then the turnips that have been grown in it havetasted of rum. 

A Drama Of Youth

 I

For some days school had seemed to me even more tedious than usual. The long train journey in the morning, the walk through FarringdonMeat Market, which æsthetic butchers made hideous with mosaics of theintestines of animals, as if the horror of suety pavements and bloodysawdust did not suffice, the weariness of inventing lies that no onebelieved to account for my lateness and neglected homework, and themonotonous lessons that held me from my dreams without ever for asingle instant capturing my interest--all these things made me illwith repulsion. Worst of all was the society of my cheerful, contented comrades, to avoid which I was compelled to mope indeserted corridors, the prey of a sorrow that could not be enjoyed, ahatred that was in no way stimulating. At the best of times theatmosphere of the place disgusted me. Desks, windows, and floors, andeven the grass in the quadrangle, were greasy with London soot, andthere was nowhere any clean air to breathe or smell. I hated thegritty asphalt that gave no peace to my feet and cut my knees when myclumsiness made me fall. I hated the long stone corridors whoseechoes seemed to me to mock my hesitating footsteps when I passedfrom one dull class to another. I hated the stuffy malodorousclassrooms, with their whistling gas-jets and noise of inharmoniouslife. I would have hated the yellow fogs had they not sometimesshortened the hours of my bondage. That five hundred boys shared thishorrible environment with me did not abate my sufferings a jot; forit was clear that they did not find it distasteful, and theytherefore became as unsympathetic for me as the smell and noise androtting stones of the school itself. 

The masters moved as it were in another world, and, as the classeswere large, they understood me as little as I understood them. Theyknew that I was idle and untruthful, and they could not know that Iwas as full of nerves as a girl, and that the mere task of getting toschool every morning made me physically sick. They punished merepeatedly and in vain, for I found every hour I passed within thewalls of the school an overwhelming punishment in itself, and nothingI made any difference to me. I lied to them because they expected it, and because I had no words in which to express the truth if I knewit, which is doubtful. For some reason I could not tell them at homewhy I got on so badly at school, or no doubt they would have taken meaway and sent me to a country school, as they did afterwards. Nearlyall the real sorrows of childhood are due to this dumbness of theemotions; we teach children to convey facts by means of words, but wedo not teach them how to make their feelings intelligible. Unfortunately, perhaps, I was very happy at night with my story-booksand my dreams, so that the real misery of my days escaped theattention of the grown-up people. Of course I never even thought ofdoing my homework, and the labour of inventing new lies every day toaccount for my negligence became so wearisome that once or twice Itold the truth and simply said I had not done it; but the mastersheld that this frankness aggravated the offence, and I had to take upanew my tiresome tale of improbable calamities. Sometimes my storieswere so wild that the whole class would laugh, and I would have tolaugh myself; yet on the strength of this elaborate politeness toauthority I came to believe myself that I was untruthful by nature. 

The boys disliked me because I was not sociable, but after a timethey grew tired of bullying me and left me alone. I detested thembecause they were all so much alike that their numbers filled me withhorror. I remember that the first day I went to school I walked roundand round the quadrangle in the luncheon-hour, and every boy whopassed stopped me and asked me my name and what my father was. When Isaid he was an engineer every one of the boys replied, "Oh! the manwho drives the engine. " The reiteration of this childish joke made mehate them from the first, and afterwards I discovered that they wereequally unimaginative in everything they did. Sometimes I would standin the midst of them, and wonder what was the matter with me that Ishould be so different from all the rest. When they teased me, repeating the same questions over and over again, I cried easily, like a girl, without quite knowing why, for their stupidities couldnot hurt my reason; but when they bullied me I did not cry, becausethe pain made me forget the sadness of my heart. Perhaps it wasbecause of this that they thought I was a little mad. 

Grey day followed grey day, and I might in time have abandonedall efforts to be faithful to my dreams, and achieved a kind ofbeast-like submission that was all the authorities expected ofnotorious dunces. I might have taught my senses to accept theevil conditions of life in that unclean place; I might even havesucceeded in making myself one with the army of shadows thatthronged in the quadrangle and filled the air with meaninglessnoise. 

But one evening when I reached home I saw by the faces of thegrown-up people that something had upset their elaborateprecautions for an ordered life, and I discovered that my brother, who had stayed at home with a cold, was ill in bed with themeasles. For a while the significance of the news escaped me;then, with a sudden movement of my heart, which made me feel ill, I realised that probably I would have to stay away from schoolbecause of the infection. My feet tapped on the floor with joy, though I tried to appear unconcerned. Then, as I nursed my suddenhope of freedom, a little fearfully lest it should prove anillusion, a new and enchanting idea came to me. I slipped from theroom, ran upstairs to my bedroom and, standing by the side of mybed, tore open my waistcoat and shirt with clumsy, tremblingfingers. One, two, three, four, five! I counted the spots in atriumphant voice, and then with a sudden revulsion sat down on thebed to give the world an opportunity to settle back in its place. I had the measles, and therefore I should not have to go back toschool! I shut my eyes for a minute and opened them again, butstill I had the measles. The cup of happiness was at my lips, butI sipped delicately because it was full to the brim, and I wouldnot spill a drop. 

This mood did not last long. I had to run down the house and tellthe world the good news. The grown-up people rebuked my joyousness, while admitting that it might be as well that I should have themeasles then as later on. In spite of their air of resignation Icould hardly sit still for excitement. I wanted to go into thekitchen and show my measles to the servants, but I was told to staywhere I was in front of the fire while my bed was moved into mybrother's room. So I stared at the glowing coals till my eyessmarted, and dreamed long dreams. I would be in bed for days, allwarm from head to foot, and no one would interrupt my pleasantexcursions in the world I preferred to this. If I had heard of thebeneficent microbe to which lowed my happiness, I would havementioned it in my prayers. 

Late that night, I called over to my brother to ask how long measleslasted. He told me to go to sleep, so that I knew he did not know theanswer to my question. I lay at ease tranquilly turning the problemover in my mind. Four weeks, six weeks, eight weeks; why, if I waslucky, it would carry me through to the holidays! At all events, school was already very far away, like a nightmare remembered atnoon. I said good-night to my brother, and received an irritatedgrunt in reply. I did not mind his surliness; tomorrow when I wokeup, I would begin my dreams. 

 II

When I found myself in bed in the morning, already sick at heartbecause even while I slept I could not forget the long torment of mylife at school, I would lie still for a minute or two and try toconcentrate my shuddering mind on something pleasant, some littledetail of the moment that seemed to justify hope. Perhaps I had somemoney to spend or a holiday to look forward to; though often enough Iwould find nothing to save me from realising with childish intensitythe greyness of the world in which it was my fate to move. I did notwant to go out into life; it was dull and gruel and greasy with soot. I only wanted to stop at home in any little quiet corner out ofeverybody's way and think my long, heroic thoughts. But even while Imumbled my hasty breakfast and ran to the station to catch my trainthe atmosphere of the school was all about me, and my dreamer'scourage trembled and vanished. 

When I woke from sleep the morning after my good fortune, I did notat first realise the extent of my happiness; I only knew that deep inmy heart I was conscious of some great cause for joy. Then my eyes, still dim with sleep, discovered that I was in my brother's bedroom, and in a flash the joyful truth was revealed to me. I sat up andhastily examined my body to make sure that the rash had notdisappeared, and then my spirit sang a song of thanksgiving of whichthe refrain was, "I have the measles!" I lay back in bed and enjoyedthe exquisite luxury of thinking of the evils that I had escaped. Foronce my morbid sense of atmosphere was a desirable possession andhelpful to my happiness. It was delightful to pull the bedclothesover my shoulders and conceive the feelings of a small boy who shouldride to town in a jolting train, walk through a hundred kinds of dirtand a hundred disgusting smells to win to prison at last, where heshould perform meaningless tasks in the distressing society of fivehundred mocking apes. It was pleasant to see the morning sun and feelno sickness in my stomach, no sense of depression in my tired brain. Across the room my brother gurgled and choked in his sleep, and insome subtle way contributed to my ecstasy of tranquillity. I was nolonger concerned for the duration of my happiness. I felt that thispeace that I had desired so long must surely last for ever. 

To the grown-up folk who came to see us during the day--thedoctor, certain germ-proof unmarried aunts, truculently maternal, and the family itself--my brother's case was far more interestingthan mine because he had caught the measles really badly. I justhad them comfortably; enough to be infectious, but not enough tofeel ill, so I was left in pleasant solitude while the womencompeted for the honour of smoothing my brother's pillow andtiptoeing in a fidgeting manner round his bed. I lay on my backand looked with placid interest at the cracks in the ceiling. Theywere like the main roads in a map, and I amused myself by buildinglittle houses beside them--houses full of books and warmhearthrugs, and with a nice pond lively with tadpoles in thegarden of each. From the windows of the houses you could watch allthe traffic that went along the road, men and women and horses, and best of all, the boys going to school in the morning--boys whohad not done their homework and who would be late for prayers. When I talked about the cracks to my brother he said that perhapsthe ceiling would give way and fall on our heads. I thought aboutthis too, and found it quite easy to picture myself lying in thebed with a smashed head, and blood all over the pillow. Then itoccurred to me that the plaster might smash me all over, and myimpressions of Farringdon Meat Market added a gruesome vividnessto my conception of the consequences. I always found it pleasantto imagine horrible things; it was only the reality that made mesick. 

Towards nightfall I became a little feverish, and I heard thegrown-ups say that they would give me some medicine later on. Medicine for me signified the nauseous powders of Dr. Gregory, so I pretended to be asleep every time anyone came into theroom, in order to escape my destiny, until at last some onestood by my bedside so long that I became cramped and had topretend to wake up. Then I was given the medicine, and found tomy surprise that it was delicious and tasted of oranges. I feltthat there had been a mistake somewhere, but my head sat alittle heavily on my shoulders, and I would not trouble to fixthe responsibility. This time I fell asleep in earnest, and wokein the middle of the night to find my brother standing by mybed, making noises with his mouth. I thought that he had gonemad, and would kill me perhaps, but after a time he went back tobed saying all the bad words he knew. The excitement had made mewide awake, and I tossed about thinking of the cracked ceilingabove my head. The room was quite dark, and I could see nothing, so that it might be bulging over me without my knowing it. Istood up in bed and stretched up my arm, but I could not reachthe ceiling; yet when I lay down again I felt as though it hadsunk so far, that it was touching my hair, and I found itdifficult to breathe in such a small space. I was afraid to movefor fear of bringing it down upon me, and in a short while thepressure upon my body became unbearable, and I shrieked out forhelp. Some one came in and lit the gas, and found me lookingvery foolish and my brother delirious. I fell asleep almostimmediately, but was conscious through my dreams that the gaswas still alight and that they were watching by my brother'sbedside. 

In the morning he was very ill and I was no longer feverish, so itwas decided to move me back into my own bedroom. I was wrapped up inthe bedclothes and told to sit still while the bed was moved. I satin an armchair, feeling like a bundle of old clothes, and looking atthe cracks in the ceiling which seemed to me like roads. I knew thatI had already lost all importance as an invalid, but I was veryhappy nevertheless. For from the window of one of my little houses Iwas watching the boys going to school, and my heart was warm withthe knowledge of my own emancipation. As my legs hung down from thechair I found it hard to keep my slippers on my stockingless feet. 

 III

There followed for me a period of deep and unbrokensatisfaction. I was soon considered well enough to get up, and Ilived pleasantly between the sofa and the fireside waiting on mybrother's convalescence, for it had been settled that I shouldgo away with him to the country for a change of air. I readDickens and Dumas in English, and made up long stories in whichI myself played important but not always heroic parts. By meansof intellectual exercises of this kind I achieved a tranquillitylike that of an old man, fearing nothing, desiring nothing, regretting nothing. I no longer reckoned the days or the hours, I content to enjoy a passionless condition of being that askedno questions and sought none of me, nor did I trouble to numbermy journeys in the world of infinite shadows. But in that longhour of peace I realised that in some inexplicable way I wasinterested in the body of a little boy, whose hands obeyed myunspoken wishes, whose legs sprawled before me on the sofa. Iknew that before I met him, this boy, whose littleness surprisedme, had suffered ill dreams in a nameless world, and now, wornout with tears and humiliation and dread of life, he slept, andwhile he slept I watched him dispassionately, as I would havelooked at a crippled daddy-long-legs. To have felt compassionfor him would have disturbed the tranquillity that was anecessary condition of my existence, so I contented myself withnoticing his presence and giving him a small part in the pageantof my dreams. He was not so beautiful as I wished all mycomrades to be, and he was besides very small; but shadows areamiable play-friends, and they did not blame him because hecried when he was teased and did not cry when he was beaten, orbecause the wild unreason of his sorrow made him find cause fortears in the very fullness of his rare enjoyment. For the firsttime in my life it seems to me I saw this little boy as he was, squat-bodied, big-headed, thick-lipped, and with a face sweptclean of all emotions save where his two great eyes glowed witha sulky fire under exaggerated eyebrows. I noticed his grimynails, his soiled collar, his unbrushed clothes, the patentsigns of defeat changing to utter rout, and from the heights ofmy great peace I was not sorry for him. He was like that, otherboys were different, that was all. 

And then on a day fear returned to my heart, and my newly discoveredUtopia was no more. I do not know what chance word of the grown-uppeople or what random thought of mine did the mischief; but of asudden I realised that for all my dreaming I was only separated by ameasurable number of days from the horror of school. Already I wassick with fear, and in place of my dreams I distressed myself byvisualising the scenes of the life I dreaded--the Meat Market, thedusty shadows of the gymnasium, the sombre reticence of the greathall. All that my lost tranquillity had given me was a keener senseof my own being; my smallness, my ugliness, my helplessness in theface of the great cruel world. Before I had sometimes been able todull my emotions in unpleasant circumstances and thus achieve adogged calm; now I was horribly conscious of my physical sensations, and, above all, of that deadly sinking in my stomach called fear. Iclenched my hands, telling myself that I was happy, and trying toforce my mind to pleasant thoughts; but though my head swam with theeffort, I continued to be conscious that I was afraid. In the midstof my mental struggles I discovered that even if I succeeded inthinking happy things I should still have to go back to school afterall, and the knowledge that thought could not avert calamity waslike a bruise on my mind. I pinched my arms and legs, with the ideathat immediate pain would make me forget my fears for the future;but I was not brave enough to pinch them really hard, and I couldnot forget the motive for my action. I lay back on the sofa andkicked the cushions with my feet in a kind of forlorn anger. Thoughtwas no use, nothing was any use, and my stomach was sick, sick withfear. And suddenly I became aware of an immense fatigue thatoverwhelmed my mind and my body, and made me feel as helpless as alittle child. The tears that were always near my eyes streamed downmy face, making my cheek sore against the wet cushion, and my breathcame in painful, ridiculous gulps. For a moment I made an effort tocontrol my grief; and then I gave way utterly, crying with my wholebody like a little child, until, like a little child, I fell asleep. 

When I awoke the room was grey with dusk, and I sat up with aswaying head, glad to hide the shame of my foolish swollen faceamongst the shadows. My mouth was still salt with tears, and I wasvery thirsty, but I was always anxious to hide my weakness fromother people, and I was afraid that if I asked for something todrink they would see that I had been crying. The fire had gone outwhile I slept, and I felt cold and stiff, but my abandonment ofrestraint had relieved me, and my fear was now no more than a vagueunrest. My mind thought slowly but very clearly. I saw that it was apity that I had not been more ill than I was, for then, like mybrother, I should have gone away for a month instead of a fortnight. As it was, everybody laughed at me because I looked so well, andsaid they did not believe that I had been ill at all. If I hadthought of it earlier I might have been able to make myself worsesomehow or other, but now it was too late. When the maid came in andlit the gas for tea she blamed me for letting the fire out, and toldme that I had a dirty face. I was glad of the chance to slip awayand wash my burning cheeks in cold water. When I had finished anddried my face on the rough towel I looked at myself in the glass. Ilooked as if I had been to the seaside for a holiday, my cheeks wereso red!

That night as I lay sleepless in my bed, seeking for a cool placebetween the sheets in which to rest my hot feet, the sickness of fearreturned to me, and I knew that I was lost. I shut my eyes tightly, but I could not shut out the vivid pictures of school life that mymemory had stored up for my torment; I beat my head against thepillow, but I could not change my thoughts. I recalled all thepossible events that might interfere with my return to school, a newillness, a railway accident, even suicide, but my reason would notaccept these romantic issues. I was helpless before my destiny, andmy destiny made me I afraid. 

And then, perhaps I was half asleep or fond with fear, I leapt out ofbed and stood in the middle of the room to meet life and fight it. The hem of my nightshirt tickled my shin and my feet grew cold on thecarpet; but though I stood ready with my fists clenched I could seeno adversary among the friendly shadows, I could hear no sound butthe I drumming of the blood against the walls of my head. I got backinto bed and pulled the bedclothes about my chilled body. It seemedthat life would not fight fair, and being only a little boy and notwise like the grown-up people, I could find no way in which to outwitit. 

 IV

My growing panic in the face of my imminent return to school spoiltmy holiday, and I watched my brother's careless delight in the Surreypine-woods with keen envy. It seemed to me that it was easy for himto enjoy himself with his month to squander; and in any case he was ahealthy, cheerful boy who liked school well enough when he was there, though of course he liked holidays better. He had scant patience withmy moods, and secretly I too thought they were wicked. We had beentaught to believe that we alone were responsible for our sins, and itdid not occur to me that the causes of my wickedness might lie beyondmy control. The beauty of the scented pines and the new green of thebracken took my breath and filled my heart with a joy that changedimmediately to overwhelming grief; for I could not help contrastingthis glorious kind of life with the squalid existence to which I mustreturn so soon. I realised so fiercely the force of the contrast thatI was afraid to make friends with the pines and admire the palm-likebeauty of the bracken lest I should increase my subsequent anguish;and I hid myself in dark corners of the woods to fight the growingsickness of my body with the feeble weapons of my panic-strickenmind. There followed moments of bitter sorrow, when I blamed myselffor not taking advantage of my hours of freedom, and I hurried alongthe sandy lanes in a desolate effort to enjoy myself before it wastoo late. 

In spite of the miserable manner in which I spent my days, thefortnight seemed to pass with extraordinary rapidity. As the endapproached, the people around me made it difficult for me to concealmy emotions, the grown-ups deducing from my melancholy that I wastired of holidays and would be glad to get back to school, and mybrother burdening me with idle messages to the other boys-messagesthat shattered my hardly formed hope that school did not reallyexist. I stood ever on the verge of tears, and I dreaded meal-times, when I had to leave my solitude, lest some turn of the conversationshould set me weeping before them all, and I should hear once morewhat I knew very well myself, that it was a shameful thing for a boyof my age to cry like a little girl. Yet the tears were there and thehard lump in my throat, and I could not master them, though I stoodin the woods while the sun set with a splendour that chilled myheart, and tried to drain my eyes dry of their rebellious, bitterwaters. I would choke over my tea and be rebuked for bad manners. 

When the last day came that I had feared most of all, I succeeded insaying goodbye to the people at the house where I had stopped, and inmaking the mournful train journey home without disgracing myself. Itseemed as though a merciful stupor had dulled my senses to a muteacceptance of my purgatory. I slept in the train, and arrived home sosleepy that I was allowed to go straight to bed without comment. Foronce my body dominated my mind, and I slipped between the sheets inan ecstasy of fatigue and fell asleep immediately. 

Something of this rare mood lingered with me in the morning, and itwas not until I reached the Meat Market that I realised the extent ofmy misfortune. I saw the greasy, red-faced men with their hands andaprons stained with blood. I saw the hideous carcases of animals, themasses of entrails, the heaps of repulsive hides; but most clearly ofall I saw an ugly sad little boy with a satchel of books on his backset down in the midst of an enormous and hostile world. The windows;and stones of the houses were black with soot, and before me therelay school, the place that had never brought me anything but sorrowand humiliation. I went on, but as I slid on the cobbles, my mindcaught an echo of peace, the peace of pine-woods and heather, thepeace of the library at home, and, my body trembling with revulsion, I leant against a lamp-post, deadly sick. Then I turned on my heelsand walked away from the Meat Market and the school for ever. As Iwent I cried, sometimes openly before all men, sometimes furtivelybefore shop-windows, dabbing my eyes with a wet pocket-handkerchief, and gasping for breath. I did not care where my feet led me, I wouldgo back to school no more. 

I had played truant for three days before the grown-ups discoveredthat I had not returned to school. They treated me with thatextraordinary consideration that they always extended to our greatcrimes and never to our little sins of thoughtlessness or highspirits. The doctor saw me. I was told that I would be sent to acountry school after the next holidays, and meanwhile I was allowedto return to my sofa and my dreams. I lay there and read Dickens andwas very happy. As a rule the cat kept me company, and I was pleasedwith his placid society, though he made my legs cramped. I thoughtthat I too would like to be a cat. 

The New Boy

 I

When I left home to go to boarding-school for the first time I didnot cry like the little boys in the story-books, though I had neverbeen away from home before except to spend holidays with relatives. This was not due to any extraordinary self-control on my part, for Iwas always ready to shed tears on the most trivial occasion. But as afact I had other things to think about, and did not in the leastrealise the significance of my journey. I had lots of new clothes andmore money in my pocket than I had ever had before, and in theguard's van at the back of the train there was a large box that I hadpacked myself with jam and potted meat and cake. In this, as in othermatters, I had been aided by the expert advice of a brother who washimself at a school in the North, and it was perhaps natural that inthe comfortable security of the holidays he should have given me analmost lyrical account of the joys of life at a boarding-school. Moreover, my existence as a day-boy in London had been so unhappy;that I was prepared to welcome any change, so at most I felt only avague unease as to the future. 

After I had glanced at my papers, I sat back and stared at my eldestbrother, who had been told off to see me safely to school. At thattime I did not like him because he seemed to me unduly insistent onhis rights and I could not help wondering at the tactlessness of thegrown-up people in choosing him as my travelling companion. With anyone else this journey might have been a joyous affair but there wereincidents between us that neither of us would forget, so that Icould find nothing better than an awkward politeness with which tomeet his strained amiability. He feigned an intense interest in hismagazine while I looked out of window, with one finger in mywaistcoat pocket, scratching the comfortable milled edges of mymoney. When I saw little farm-houses, forgotten in the green dimplesof the Kentish hills, I thought that it would be nice to live therewith a room full of story-books, away from the discomforts anddifficulties of life. Like a cat, I wanted to dream somewhere whereI would not be trodden on, somewhere where I would be neglected byfriends and foes alike. This was my normal desire, but side by sidewith my craving for peace I was aware of a new and interestingemotion that suggested the possibility of a life even moreagreeable. The excitement of packing my box with provender like asailor who was going on a long voyage, the unwonted thrill of havinga large sum of money concealed about my person, and above all theimaginative yarns of my elder brother, had fired me with the thoughtof adventure. His stories had been filled with an utter contempt forlessons and a superb defiance of the authorities, and had rangedfrom desperate rabbit-shooting parties on the Yorkshire Wolds toillicit feasts of Eccles cakes and tinned lobster in moonlitdormitories. I thought that it would be pleasant to experience thisromantic kind of life before settling down for good with my dreams. 

The train wandered on and my eldest brother and I looked at eachother constrainedly. He had already asked me twice whether I had myticket, and I realised that he could not think of any other neutralremark that fitted the occasion. It occurred to me to say that thetrain was slow, but I remembered with a glow of anger how he had oncerubbed a strawberry in my face because I had taken the liberty ofoffering it to one of his friends, and I held my peace. I had prayedfor his death every night for three weeks after that, and though hewas still alive the knowledge of my unconfessed and unrepentedwickedness prevented me from being more than conveniently polite, hethought I was a cheeky little toad and I thought he was a bully, sowe looked at each other and did not speak. We were both glad, therefore, when the train pulled up at the station that bore the nameof my new school. 

My first emotion was a keen regret that my parents had not sent meto a place where the sun shone. As we sat in the little omnibusthat carried us from the station to the town, with my preciousboxes safely stored on the roof, we passed between grey fieldswhose featureless expanses melted changelessly into the grey skyoverhead. The prospect alarmed me, for it seemed to me that thiswas not a likely world for adventures; nor was I reassured by thesight of the town, whose one long street of low, old-fashionedhouses struck me as being mean and sordid. I was conscious thatthe place had an unpleasant smell, and I was already driven tothinking of my pocket-money and my play-box--agreeable thoughtswhich I had made up my mind in the train to reserve carefully forpossible hours of unhappiness. But the low roof of the omnibus waslike a limit to my imagination, and my body was troubled by thedispleasing contact of the velvet cushions. I was still wonderingwhy this made my wrists ache, when the omnibus lurched from thecobbles on to a gravel drive, and I saw the school buildingstowering all about me like the walls of a prison. I jumped out andstretched my legs while the driver climbed down to collect thefares. He looked at me without a jot of interest, and I knew thathe must have driven a great many boys from the station to theschool in the course of his life. 

A man appeared in shirt-sleeves of grey flannel and wheeled my boxesaway on a little truck, and after a while a master came down andshowed us, in a perfunctory manner, over the more presentablequarters of the school. My brother was anxious to get away, becausehe had not been emancipated long enough to find the atmosphere ofdormitories and class-rooms agreeable. I was naturally interested, in my new environment, but the presence of the master constrainedme, and I was afraid to speak in front of this unknown man whom itwas my lot to obey, so we were all relieved when our hurriedinspection was over. He told me that I was at liberty to do what Ipleased till seven o'clock, so I went for a walk through the townwith my brother. 

The day was drawing to a chill grey close, and the town was filledwith a clammy mist tainted with the odour of sewage, due, Iafterwards discovered, to the popular abuse of the little streamthat gave the place its name. Even my brother could not entirelyescape the melancholy influence of the hour and the place, and hewas glad to take me into a baker's shop and have tea. By now theillusion of adventure that had reconciled me to leaving home was ina desperate state, and I drank my tea and consumed my cakes withoutenjoyment. If life was always going to be the same--if in fleeingone misfortune I had merely brought on myself the pain of becomingaccustomed to another--I felt sure that my meagre stoicism would notsuffice to carry me through with credit. I had failed once, I wouldfail again. I looked forward with a sinking heart to a tearful anduncomfortable future. 

There was only a very poor train service, so my brother had plenty oftime to walk back to the station, and it was settled that I should gopart of the way with him. As we walked along the white road, thatstretched between uniform hedgerows of a shadowy greyness, I saw thathe had something on his mind. In this hour of my trial I was willingto forget the past for the sake of talking for a few minutes withsome human being whom I knew, but he returned only vague answers tomy eager questions. At last he stopped in the middle of the road, andsaid I had better turn back. I would liked to have walked fartherwith him, but I was above all things anxious to keep up appearances, so I said goodbye in as composed a voice as I could find. My brotherhesitated for a minute; then with a timid glance at heaven he put hishand in his pocket, pulled out half a crown which he gave me, andwalked rapidly away. I saw in a flash that for him, too, it had beenan important moment; he had tipped his first schoolboy, andhenceforth he was beyond all question grown up. 

I did not like him, but I watched him disappear in the dusk with adesolate heart. At that moment he stood for a great many things thatseemed valuable to me, and I would have given much to have beenwalking by his side with my face towards home and my back turned tothe grey and unsavoury town to which I had to bear my despondentloneliness. Nevertheless I stepped out staunchly enough, in orderthat my mind should take courage from the example of my body. Ithought strenuously of my brother's stories, of my play-box packedfor a voyage, of the money in my pocket increased now by my eldestbrother's unexpected generosity; and by dint of these violent mentalexercises I had reduced my mind to a comfortable stupor by the time Ireached the school gates. There I was overcome by shyness, andalthough I saw lights in the form-rooms and heard the voices of boys, I stood awkwardly in the playground, not knowing where I ought to go. The mist in the air surrounded the lights with a halo, and mynostrils were filled with the acrid smell of burning leaves. 

I had stood there a quarter of an hour perhaps, when a boy came upand spoke to me, and the sound of his voice gave me a shock. I thinkit was the first time in my life a boy had spoken kindly to me. Heasked me my name, and told me that it would be supper-time in fiveminutes, so that I could go and sit in the dining-hall and wait. "You'll be all right, you know, " he said, as he passed on; "they'renot a bad lot of chaps. " The revulsion nearly brought on acatastrophe, for the tears rose to my eyes and I gazed after him witha swimming head. I had prepared myself to receive blows and insultswith a calm brow, but I had no armour with which to oppose the nobleweapons of sympathy and good fellowship. They overcame the stubbornhatred with which I was accustomed to meet life, and left medefenceless. I felt as if I had been face to face with the hero of adream. 

As I sat at supper before a long table decorated with plates ofbread-and-butter and cheese I saw my friend sitting at the other endof the room, so I asked the boy next to me to tell me his name. "Oh, "he said, looking curiously at my blushes, "you mean old mother F----. He's pious, you know; reads the Bible and funks at games and allthat. "

There are some things which no self-respecting schoolboy can affordto forgive. I had made up my mind that it was not pleasant to be anIshmael, that as far as possible I would try to be an ordinary boy atmy new school. My experiences in London had taught me caution, and Iwas anxious not to compromise my position at the outset by making anunpopular friend. So I nodded my head sagely in reply, and looked atmy new-discovered hero with an air of profound contempt. 

 II

The days that followed were not so uncomfortable as my first greyimpression of the place had led me to expect. I proved to my ownintense astonishment to be rather good at lessons, so that I got onwell with the masters, and the boys were kind enough in theircareless way. I had plenty of pocket-money, and though I did notshine at Association football, for in London I had only watched thebig boys playing Rugby, I was not afraid of being knocked about, which was all that was expected of a new boy. Most of myembarrassments were due to the sensitiveness that made me dislikeasking questions--a weakness that was always placing me in falsepositions. But my efforts to make myself agreeable to the boys werenot unsuccessful, and while I looked in vain for anything like theromantic adventures of which my brother had spoken, I sometimes foundmyself almost enjoying my new life. 

And then, as the children say in the streets of London, I wokeup, and discovered that I was desperately home-sick. Partly nodoubt this was due to a natural reaction, but there were othermore obvious causes. For one thing my lavish hospitality hadexhausted my pocket-money in the first three weeks, and I wasashamed to write home for more so soon. This speedy end to myapparent wealth certainly made it easier for the boys to findout that I was not one of themselves, and they began to look atme askance and leave me out of their conversations. I was madeto feel once more that I had been born under a malignant starthat did not allow me to speak or act as they did. I had nottheir common sense, their blunt cheerfulness, their completelack of sensibility, and while they resented my queerness theycould not know how anxious I was to be an ordinary boy. When Isaw that they mistrusted me I was too proud to accept the crumbsof their society like poor mother F----, and I withdrew myself intoa solitude that gave me far too much time in which to examine myemotions. I found out all the remote corners of the school inwhich it was possible to be alone, and when the other boys wentfor walks in the fields, I stayed in the churchyard close to theschool, disturbing the sheep in their meditations among thetomb-stones, and thinking what a long time it would be before Iwas old enough to die. 

Now that the first freshness of my new environment had worn off, Iwas able to see my life as a series of grey pictures that repeatedthemselves day by day. In my mind these pictures were marked offfrom each other by a sound of bells. I woke in the morning in a bedthat was like all the other beds, and lay on my back listening tothe soft noises of sleep that filled the air with rumours of healthyboys. The bell would ring and the dormitory would break into anuproar, splashing of water, dropping of hair-brushes and shouts oflaughter, for these super-boys could laugh before breakfast. Then weall trooped downstairs and I forced myself to drink bad coffee in aroom that smelt of herrings. The next bell called us to chapel, andat intervals during the morning other bells called us from one classto another. Dinner was the one square meal we had during the day, and as it was always very good, and there was nothing morbid aboutmy appetite, I looked forward to it with interest. After dinner weplayed football. I liked the game well enough, but the atmosphere ofmud and forlorn grey fields made me shudder, and as I kept goal Ispent my leisure moments in hardening my æesthetic impressions. Inever see the word football today without recalling the curioussensation caused by the mud drying on my bare knees. After footballwere other classes, classes in which it was sometimes very hard tokeep awake, for the school was old, and the badly ventilatedclass-rooms were stuffy after the fresh air. Then the bell summonedus to evening chapel and tea--a meal which we were allowed toimprove with sardines and eggs and jam, if we had money to buy themor a hamper from home. After tea we had about two hours to ourselvesand then came preparation, and supper and bed. Everything washeralded by a bell, and now and again even in the midst of lessonsI would hear the church-bell tolling for a funeral. 

I think my hatred of bells dated back to my early childhood, when thevillage church, having only three bells, played the first bar of"Three Blind Mice" a million times every Sunday evening, till I couldhave cried for monotony and the vexation of the thwarted tune. But atschool I had to pay the penalty for my prejudice every hour of theday. Especially I suffered at night during preparation, when theyrang the curfew on the church bells at intolerable length, for thesewere tranquil hours to which I looked forward eagerly. We preparedour lessons for the morrow in the Great Hall, and I would spread mybooks out on the desk and let my legs dangle from the form in aspirit of contentment for the troubled day happily past. Over my headthe gas stars burned quietly, and all about me I heard the restrainedbreathing of comrades, like a noise of fluttering moths. And then, suddenly, the first stroke of the curfew would snarl through the air, filling the roof with nasal echoes, and troubling the quietude of mymind with insistent vibrations. I derived small satisfaction fromcursing William the Conqueror, who, the history book told me, wasresponsible for this ingenious tyranny. The long pauses between thestrokes held me in a state of strained expectancy until I wanted tohowl. I would look about me for sympathy and see the boys at theirlessons, and the master on duty reading quietly at his table. Thecurfew rang every night, and they did not notice it at all. 

The only bell I liked to hear was the last bell that called us to ourbrief supper and to bed, for once the light was out and my body wasbetween the sheets I was free to do what I would, free to think or todream or to cry. There was no real difference between being in bed atschool or anywhere else; and sometimes I would fill the shadows ofthe dormitory with the familiar furniture of my little bedroom athome, and pretend that I was happy. But as a rule I came to bedbrimming over with the day's tears, and I would pull the bedclothesover my head so that the other boys should not know that I washomesick, and cry until I was sticky with tears and perspiration. 

The discipline at school did not make us good boys, but it made uscivilised; it taught us to conceal our crimes. And as home-sicknesswas justly regarded as a crime of ingratitude to the authorities andto society in general, I had to restrain my physical weakness duringthe day, and the reaction from this restraint made my tears at nightalmost a luxury. My longing for home was founded on trifles, but itwas not the less passionate. I hated this life spent in walking onbare boards, and the blank walls and polished forms of the schoolappeared to me to be sordid. When now and again I went into one ofthe master's studies and felt a carpet under my feet, and saw apleasant litter of pipes and novels lying on the table, it seemed tome that I was in a holy place, and I looked at the hearthrug, thewallpaper, and the upholstered chairs with a kind of desolate lovefor things that were nice to see and touch. I suppose that if we hadbeen in a workhouse, a prison, or a lunatic asylum, our æestheticenvironment would have been very much the same as it was at school;and afterwards when I went with the cricket and football teams toother grammar schools they all gave me the same impression of cleanugliness. It is not surprising that few boys emerge from their schoollife with that feeling for colour and form which is common to nearlyall children. 

There was something very unpleasant to me in the fact that we allwashed with the same kind of soap, drank out of the same kind of cup, and in general did the same things at the same time. The schooltimetable robbed life of all those accidental variations that make itinteresting. Our meals, our games, even our hours of freedom seemedonly like subtle lessons. We had to eat at a certain hour whether wewere hungry or not, we had to play at a certain hour when perhaps wewanted to sit still and be quiet. The whole school discipline tendedto the formation of habits at the expense of our reasoning faculties. Yet the astonishing thing to me was that the boys themselves set upstandards of conduct that still further narrowed the possibilities ofour life. It was bad form to read too much, to write home except onSundays, to work outside the appointed hours, to talk to the day-boys, to cultivate social relationships with the masters, to be Cambridgein the boat-race, and in fine to hold any opinion or follow anypursuit that was not approved by the majority. It was only by hidingmyself away in corners that I could enjoy any liberty of spirit, andthough my thoughts were often cheerless when I remembered therelative freedom of home life, I preferred to linger with them ratherthan to weary myself in breaking the little laws of a society forwhich I was in no way fitted. 

These were black days, rendered blacker by my morbid fear of thephysical weakness that made me liable to cry at any moment, sometimeseven without in the least knowing why. I was often on the brink ofdisaster, but my fear of the boys' ridicule prevented me frompublicly disgracing myself. Once the headmaster called a boy intohis study, and he came out afterwards with red eyelids and a puffedface. When they heard that his mother had died suddenly in India, allthe boys thought that these manifestations of sorrow were verycreditable, and in the best of taste, especially as he did not letanybody see him crying. For my part I looked at him with a kind ofenvy, this boy who could flaunt his woe where he would. I, too, hadmy unassuageable sorrow for the home that was dead to me thoseforlorn days; but I could only express it among the tombs in thechurchyard, or at night, muffled between the blankets, when thesilent dormitory seemed to listen with suspicious ears. 

 III

A consoling scrap of wisdom which unfortunately children do not findwritten large in their copybooks is that sorrow is as transitory ashappiness. Although my childhood was strewn with the memorial wreathsof dead miseries, I always had a morbid sense that my presentdiscomforts were immortal. So I had quite made up my mind that Iwould continue to be unhappy at school, when the intervention of twobeings whom I had thought utterly remote from me, gave me a newphilosophy and reconciled me to life. The first was a master, whofound me grieving in one of my oubliettes and took me into his studyand tried to draw me out. Kindness always made me ineloquent, andas I sat in his big basket chair and sniffed the delightful odour ofhis pipe, I expressed myself chiefly in woe-begone monosyllables andhiccoughs. Nevertheless he seemed to understand me very well, andthough he did not say much, I felt by the way in which he puffed outgreat, generous clouds of smoke, that he sympathised with me. He toldme to come and see him twice a week, and that I was at liberty toread any of his books, and in general gave me a sense that I wasunfortunate rather than criminal. This did me good, because a largepart of my unhappiness was due to the fact that constant suppressionby majorities had robbed me of my self-respect. It is better for aboy to be conceited than to be ashamed of his own nature, and toshudder when he sees his face reflected in a glass. 

My second benefactor was nominally a boy, though in reality he wasnearly as old as the master, and was leaving at the end of the termto go up to Oxford. He took me by the shoulder one evening in thedusk, and walked me round and round the big clump of rhododendronsthat stood in the drive in front of the school. I did not understandhalf he said, but to my great astonishment I heard him confessingthat he had always been unhappy at school, although at the end hewas captain in lessons, in games, in everything. I was, of course, highly flattered that this giant should speak to me as an equal, andadmit me to his confidences. But I was even more delighted with theencouraging light he threw on school life. "You're only here for alittle spell, you know; you'll be surprised how short it is. Anddon't be miserable just because you're different. I'm different; it'sa jolly good thing to be different. " I was not used, to people whotook this wide view of circumstance, and his voice in the shadowssounded like some one speaking in a story-book. Yet although hismonologue gave me an entirely new conception of life, no more of itlingers in my mind, save his last reflective criticism. "All thesame, I don't see why you should always have dirty nails. " He neverconfided in me again, and I would have died rather than have remindedhim of his kindly indiscretion; but when he passed me in theplayground he seemed to look at me with a kind of reticent interest, and it occurred to me that after all my queerness might not be such abad thing, might even be something to be proud of. 

The value of this discovery to me can hardly be exaggerated. Hithertoin my relationships with the boys I had fought nothing but losingbattles, for I had taken it for granted that they were right and Iwas wrong. But now that I had hit on the astonishing theory that theindividual has the right to think for himself, I saw quite clearlythat most of their standards of conduct sprang from their sheep-likestupidity. They moved in flocks because they had not the courage tochoose a line for themselves. The material result of this new theoryof life was to make me enormously conceited, and I moved among mycomrades with a mysterious confidence, and gave myself the airs of aByron in knickerbockers. My unpopularity increased by leaps andbounds, but so did my moral courage, and I accepted the belatedefforts of my school-fellows to knock the intelligence out of me asso many tributes to the force of my individuality. I no longer criedin my bed at night, but lay awake enraptured at the profundity of mythoughts. After years of unquestioning humility I enjoyed a prolongeddebauch of intellectual pride, and I marvelled at the little boy ofyesterday who had wept because he could not be an imbecile. It wasthe apotheosis of the ugly duckling, and I saw my swan's plumagereflected in the placid faces of the boys around me, as in the vacantwaters of a pool. As yet I did not dream of a moulting season, stillless that a day would come when I should envy the ducks theirdomestic ease and the unthinking tranquillity of their lives. Alittle boy may be excused for not realising that Hans Andersen'sstory is only the prelude to a sadder story that he had not the heartto write. 

My new freedom of spirit gave me courage to re-examine the emotionaland æesthetic values of my environment. I could not persuade myselfthat I liked the sound of bells, and the greyness of the country inwinter-time still revolted me, as though I had not yet forgotten thecheerful reds and greens and blues of the picture-books that filledmy mind as a child with dreams of a delightful world. But now that Iwas wise enough to make the best of my unboyish emotionalism, I beganto take pleasure in certain phases of school-life. Though I wasdevoid of any recognisable religious sense I liked the wide words inthe Psalms that we read at night in the school chapel. This was notdue to any precocious recognition of their poetry, but to the factthat their intense imagery conjured up all sorts of precious visionsin my mind, I could see the hart panting after the water-brooks, inthe valleys of Exmoor, where I had once spent an enchanted holiday. Icould see the men going down to the sea in ships, and the stormywaves, and the staggering, fearful mariners, for I had witnessed agreat tempest off Flamborough Head. Even such vague phrases as "thehills" gave me an intense joy. I could see them so clearly, thosehills, chalky hills covered with wild pansies, and with an all-bluesky overhead, like the lid of a chocolate-box. I liked, too, theservices in the old church on Sunday nights, when the lights werelowered for the sermon, and I would put my hands over my ears andhear the voice of the preacher like the drone of a distant bee. Afterchurch the choral society used to practise in the Great Hall, and asI walked round the school buildings, snatches of their singing wouldbeat against my face like sudden gusts of wind. When I listened atthe doors of my form-room I heard the boys talking about footballmatches, or indulging their tireless passion for unimaginativepersonalities; I would stand on the mat outside wondering whether Iwould be allowed to read if I went in. 

I looked forward to Tuesday night, which was my bath-night, almost as much as to Sunday. The school sanitary arrangementswere primitive, and all the water had to be fetched in pails, and I used to like to see the man tipping the hot water into thebath and flinging his great body back to avoid the steam thatmade his grey flannel shirt-sleeves cling to his hairy arms. Most of the boys added a lot of cold water, but I liked to boilmyself because the subsequent languor was so pleasant. Thematron would bring our own bath towels warm from the fire, and Iwould press mine against my face because it smelt of childhoodand of home. I always thought my body looked pretty after areally hot bath; its rosiness enabled me to forgive myself forbeing fat. 

One very strong impression was connected with the only master in theschool whom I did not like. He was a German, and as is the case withothers of his nationality, a spray of saliva flew from his lips whenhe was angry, and seeing this, I would edge away from him in alarm. Perhaps it was on this account that he treated me with systematicunfairness and set himself the unnecessary task of making meridiculous in the eyes of the other boys. One night I was wanderingin the playground and heard him playing the violin in his study. Mytaste in music was barbarian; I liked comic songs, which I used tosing to myself in a lugubrious voice, and in London the plaintiveclamour of the street-organs had helped to make my sorrowsrhythmical. But now, perhaps for the first time, I became aware ofthe illimitable melancholy that lies at the heart of all greatmusic. It seemed to me that the German master, the man whom I hated, had shut himself up alone in his study, and was crying aloud. I knewthat if he was unhappy, it must be because he too was an Ishmael, apersonality, one of the different ones. A great sympathy woke withinme, and I peeped through the window and saw him playing with hisface all shiny with perspiration and a silk handkerchief tuckedunder his chin. I would have liked to have knocked at his door andtold him that I knew all about these things, but I was afraid thathe would think me cheeky and splutter in my face. 

The next day in his class, I looked at him hopefully, in the lightof my new understanding, but it did not seem to make any difference. He only told me to get on with my work. 

The term drew to a close, and most of the boys in my form-roomticked off the days on lists, in which the Sundays were written inred ink to show that they did not really count. As time went on theygrew more and more boisterous, and wherever I went I heard themtelling one another how they were going to spend their holidays. Itwas surprising to me that these boys who were so ordinary duringterm-time should lead such adventurous lives in the holidays, and Ifelt a little envious of their good fortune. They talked of visitingthe theatre and foreign travel in a matter-of-fact way that made methink that perhaps after all my home-life was incomplete. I hadnever been out of England, and my dramatic knowledge was limited topantomimes, for which these enthusiastic students of musical comedyexpressed a large contempt. Some of them were allowed to shoot withreal guns in the holidays, which reminded me of the worst excessesof my brother in Yorkshire. Examining my own life, I had often cometo the conclusion that adventures did not exist outside books. Butthe boys shook this comforting theory with their boastfulprophecies, and I thought once more that perhaps it was mymisfortune that they did not happen to me. I began to fear that Iwould find the holidays tame. 

There were other considerations that made me look forward to the endof the term with misgiving. Since it had been made plain to me that Iwas a remarkable boy, I had rather enjoyed my life at school. I hadconceived myself as strutting with a measured dignity before abackground of the other boys--a background that moved and did notchange, like a wind-swept tapestry; but I was quite sure that I wouldnot be allowed to give myself airs at home. It seemed to me that ayoungest brother's portion of freedom would compare but poorly withthe measure of intellectual liberty that I had secured for myself atschool. My brothers were all very well in their way, but I would beexpected to take my place in the background and do what I was told. Ishould miss my sense of being superior to my environment, and myintensely emotional Sundays would no longer divide time into weeks. The more I thought of it, the more I realised that I did not want togo home. 

On the last night of the term, when the dormitory had at lengthbecome quiet, I considered the whole case dispassionately in my bed. The labour of packing my play-box and writing labels for my luggagehad given me a momentary thrill, but for the rest I had moved amongmy insurgent comrades with a chilled heart. I knew now that I wastoo greedy of life, that I always thought of the pleasant side ofthings when they were no longer within my grasp; but at the I sametime my discontent was not wholly unreasonable. I had learnt moreof myself in three months than I had in all my life before, and frombeing a nervous, hysterical boy I had arrived at a completeunderstanding of my emotions, which I studied with an almost adultcalmness of mind. I knew that in returning to the society of myhealthy, boyish brothers, I was going back to a kind of life forwhich I was no longer fitted. I had changed, but I had the sense tosee that it was a change that would not appeal to them, and that inconsequence I would have another and harder battle to fight before Iwas allowed to go my own way. 

I saw further still. I saw that after a month at home I wouldnot want to come back to school, and that I should have toendure another period of despondency. I saw that my whole schoollife would be punctuated by these violent uprootings, that thealternation of term-time and holidays would make it impossiblefor me to change life into a comfortable habit, and that even tothe end of my school-days it would be necessary for me topreserve my new-found courage. 

As I lay thinking in the dark I was proud of the clarity of mymind, and glad that I had at last outwitted the tears that had mademy childhood so unhappy. I heard, the boys breathing softly aroundme--those wonderful boys who could sleep even when they wereexcited--and I felt that I was getting the better of them in thinkingwhile they slept. I remembered the prefect who had told me that wewere there only for a spell, but I did not speculate as to whatwould follow afterwards. All that I had to do was to watch myselfceaselessly, and be able to explain to myself everything that I feltI and did. In that way I should always be strong I enough to guardmy weaknesses from the eyes of the jealous world in which I moved. 

The church bells chimed the hour, and I turned over and went tosleep. 

On the Brighton Road

Slowly the sun had climbed up the hard white downs, till it brokewith little of the mysterious ritual of dawn upon a sparkling worldof snow. There had been a hard frost during the night, and the birds, who hopped about here and there with scant tolerance of life, left notrace of their passage on the silver pavements. In places thesheltered caverns of the hedges broke the monotony of the whitenessthat had fallen upon the coloured earth, and overhead the sky meltedfrom orange to deep blue, from deep blue to a blue so pale that itsuggested a thin paper screen rather than illimitable space. Acrossthe level fields there came a cold, silent wind which blew a finedust of snow from the trees, but hardly stirred the crested hedges. Once above the skyline, the sun seemed to climb more quickly, and asit rose higher it began to give out a heat that blended with thekeenness of the wind. 

It may have been this strange alternation of heat and cold thatdisturbed the tramp in his dreams, for he struggled tor a moment withthe snow that covered him, like a man who finds himself twisteduncomfortably in the bed-clothes, and then sat up with staring, questioning eyes. "Lord! I thought I was in bed, " he said to himselfas he took in the vacant landscape, "and all the while I was outhere. " He stretched his limbs, and, rising carefully to his feet, shook the snow off his body. As he did so the wind set him shivering, and he knew that his bed had been warm. 

"Come, I feel pretty fit, " he thought. "I suppose I am lucky to wakeat all in this. Or unlucky--it isn't much of a business to come backto. " He looked up and saw the downs shining against the blue, likethe Alps on a picture-postcard. "That means another forty miles orso, I suppose, " he continued grimly. "Lord knows what I did yesterday. Walked till I was done, and now I'm only about twelve miles fromBrighton. Damn the snow, damn Brighton, damn everything!" The suncrept higher and higher, and he started walking patiently along theroad with his back turned to the hills. 

"Am I glad or sorry that it was only sleep that took me, glad orsorry, glad or sorry?" His thoughts seemed to arrange themselves in ametrical accompaniment to the steady thud of his footsteps, and hehardly sought an answer to his question. It was good enough to walkto. 

Presently, when three milestones had loitered past, he overtook aboy who was stooping to light a cigarette. He wore no overcoat, andlooked unspeakably fragile against the snow, "Are you on the road, guv'nor?" asked the boy huskily as he passed. 

"I think I am, " the tramp said. 

"Oh! then I'll come a bit of the way with you if you don't walk toofast. It's bit lonesome walking this time of day. "

The tramp nodded his head, and the boy started limping along by hisside. 

"I'm eighteen, " he said casually. "I bet you thought I was younger. "

"Fifteen, I'd have said. "

"You'd have backed a loser. Eighteen last August, and I've been onthe road six years. I ran away from home five times when I was alittle 'un, and the police took me back each time. Very good to me, the police was. Now I haven't got a home to run away from. "

"Nor have I, " the tramp said calmly. 

"Oh, I can see what you are, " the boy panted; "you're a gentlemancome down. It's harder for you than for me. " The tramp glanced at thelimping, feeble figure and lessened his pace. 

"I haven't been at it as long as you have, " he admitted. 

"No, I could tell that by the way you walk. You haven't got tiredyet. Perhaps you expect something at the other end?"

The tramp reflected for a moment. "I don't know, " he said bitterly, "I'm always expecting things. "

"You'll grow out of that;" the boy commented. "It's warmer in London, but it's harder to come by grub. There isn't much in it really. "

"Still, there's the chance of meeting somebody there who willunderstand--"

"Country people are better, " the boy interrupted. "Last night I tooka lease of a barn for nothing and slept with the cows, and thismorning the farmer routed me out and gave me tea and toke because Iwas so little. Of course, I score there; but in London, soup on theEmbankment at night, and all the rest of the time coppers moving youon. "

"I dropped by the roadside last night and slept where I fell. It's awonder I didn't die, " the tramp said. The boy looked at him sharply. 

"How did you know you didn't?" he said. 

"I don't see it, " the tramp said, after a pause. 

"I tell you, " the boy said hoarsely, "people like us can't get awayfrom this sort of thing if we want to. Always hungry and thirsty anddog-tired and walking all the while. And yet if anyone offers me anice home and work my stomach feels sick. Do I look strong? I knowI'm little for my age, but I've been knocking about like this for sixyears, and do you think I'm not dead? I was drowned bathing atMargate, and I was killed by a gypsy with a spike; he knocked my headand yet I'm walking along here now, walking to London to walk awayfrom it again, because I can't help it. Dead! I tell you we can't getaway if we want to. "

The boy broke off in a fit of coughing, and the tramp paused while herecovered. 

"You'd better borrow my coat for a bit, Tommy, " he said, "yourcough's pretty bad. "

"You go to hell!" the boy said fiercely, puffing at his cigarette;"I'm all right. I was telling you about the road. You haven't gotdown to it yet, but you'll find out presently. We're all dead, all ofus who're on it, and we're all tired, yet somehow we can't leave it. There's nice smells in the summer, dust and hay and the wind smack inyour face on a hot day--and it's nice waking up in the wet grass on afine morning. I don't know, I don't know--" he lurched forwardsuddenly, and the tramp caught him in his arms. 

"I'm sick, " the boy whispered--"sick. "

The tramp looked up and down the road, but he could see no houses orany sign of help. Yet even as he supported the boy doubtfully in themiddle of the road a motor car suddenly flashed in the middledistance, and came smoothly through the snow. 

"What's the trouble?" said the driver quietly as he pulled up. "I'm adoctor. " He looked at the boy keenly and listened to his strainedbreathing. 

"Pneumonia, " he commented. "I'll give him a lift to the infirmary, and you, too, if you like. "

The tramp thought of the workhouse and shook his head "I'd ratherwalk, " he said. 

The boy winked faintly as they lifted him into the car. 

"I'll meet you beyond Reigate, " he murmured to the tramp. "You'llsee. " And the car vanished along the white road. 

All the morning the tramp splashed through the thawing snow, but atmidday he begged some bread at a cottage door and crept into a lonelybarn to eat it. It was warm in there, and after his meal he fellasleep among the hay. It was dark when he woke, and started trudgingonce more through the slushy roads. 

Two miles beyond Reigate a figure, a fragile figure, slipped out ofthe darkness to meet him. 

"On the road, guv'nor?" said a husky voice. "Then I'll come a bit ofthe way with you if you don't walk too fast. It's a bit lonesomewalking this time of day. "

"But the pneumonia!" cried the tramp, aghast. 

"I died at Crawley this morning, " said the boy. 

A Tragedy In Little

 I

Jack, the postmaster's little son, stood in the bow-window of theparlour and watched his mother watering the nasturtiums in the frontgarden. A certain intensity of purpose was expressed by the manner inwhich she handled the water-pot. For though it was a fine afternoonthe carrier's man had called over the hedge to say that there wouldbe a thunderstorm during the night, and every one knew that he nevermade a mistake about the weather. Nevertheless, Jack's mother wateredthe plants as if he had not spoken, for it seemed to her that thismeteorological gift smacked a little of sorcery and black magic; butin spite of herself she felt sure that there would be a thunderstormand that her labour was therefore vain, save perhaps as a protestagainst idle superstition. It was in the same spirit that she carriedan umbrella on the brightest summer day. 

Jack had been sent indoors because he would get his legs in the wayof the watering-pot in order to cool them, so now he had to becontent to look on, with his nose pressed so tightly against thepane that from outside it looked like the base of a sea-anemonegrowing in a glass tank. He could no longer hear the glad chuckleof the watering-pot when the water ran out, but, on the other hand, he could write his name on the window with his tongue, which hecould not have done if he had been in the garden. Also he had somesweets in his pocket, bought with a halfpenny stolen from his ownmoney-box, and as the window did not taste very nice he slipped oneinto his mouth and sucked it with enjoyment. He did not like beingin the parlour, because he had to sit there with his best clothes onevery Sunday afternoon and read the parish magazine to his sleepyparents. But the front window was lovely, like a picture, and, indeed, he thought that his mother, with the flowers all about herand the red sky overhead, was like a lady on one of the beautifulcalendars that the grocer gave away at Christmas. He finished hissweet and started another; he always meant to suck them rightthrough to make them last longer, but when the sweet was halffinished he invariably crunched it up. His father had done the samething as a boy. 

The room behind him was getting dark, but outside the sky seemed tobe growing lighter, and mother still stooped from bed to bed, movingplacidly, like a cow. Sometimes she put the watering-pot down on thegravel path, and bent to uproot a microscopic weed or to pull thehead off a dead flower. Sometimes she went to the well to get somemore water, and then Jack was sorry that he had been shut indoors, for he liked letting the pail down with a run and hearing it bumpagainst the brick sides. Once he tapped upon the window forpermission to come out, but mother shook her head vigorously withoutturning round; and yet his stockings were hardly wet at all. 

Suddenly mother straightened herself, and Jack looked up and saw hisfather leaning over the gate. He seemed to be making grimaces, andJack made haste to laugh aloud in the empty room, because he knewthat he was good at seeing his father's jokes. Indeed it was a funnything that father should come home early from work and make faces atmother from the road. Mother, too, was willing to join in the fun, for she knelt down among the wet flowers, and as her head droopedlower and lower it looked, for one ecstatic moment, as though shewere going to turn head over heels. But she lay quite still on theground, and father came half-way through the gate, and then turnedand ran off down the hill towards the station. Jack stood in thewindow, clapping his hands and laughing; it was a strange game, butnot much harder to understand than most of the amusements of thegrown-up people. 

And then as nothing happened, as mother did not move and father didnot come back, Jack grew frightened. The garden was queer and theroom was full of darkness, so he beat on the window to change thegame. Then, since mother did not shake her head, he ran out into thegarden, smiling carefully in case he was being silly. First he wentto the gate, but father was quite small far down the road, so heturned back and pulled the sleeve of his mother's dress, to wake her. After a dreadful while mother got up off the ground with her skirtall covered with wet earth. Jack tried to brush it off with his handsand made a mess of it, but she did not seem to notice, looking acrossthe garden with such a desolate face, that when he saw it he burstinto tears. For once mother let him cry himself out without seekingto comfort him; when he sniffed dolefully, his nostrils were full ofthe scent of crushed marigolds. He could not help watching her handsthrough his tears; it seemed as though they were playing together atcat's-cradle; they were not still for a moment. But it was her facethat at once frightened and interested him. One minute it lookedsmooth and white as if she was very cross, and the next minute it wasgathered up in little folds as if she was going to sneeze. Deep downin him something chuckled, and he jumped for fear that the cross partof her had heard it. At intervals during the evening, while motherwas getting him his supper, this chuckle returned to him, betweenunnoticed fits of crying. Once she stood holding a plate in themiddle of the room for quite five minutes, and he found it hard tocontrol his mirth. If father had been there they would have had goodfun together, teasing mother, but by himself he was not sure of hisground. And father did not come back, and mother did not seem to hearhis questions. 

He had some tomatoes and rice-pudding for his supper, and as motherleft him to help himself to brown sugar he enjoyed it very much, carefully leaving the skin of the rice-pudding to the last, becausethat was the part he liked best. After supper he sat nodding at theopen window, looking out over the plum-trees to the sky beyond, wherethe black clouds were putting out the stars one by one. The gardensmelt stuffy, but it was nice to be allowed to sit up when you feltreally sleepy. On the whole he felt that it had been a pleasant, exciting sort of day, though once or twice mother had frightened himby looking so strange. There had been other mysterious days in hislife, however; perhaps he was going to have another little deadsister. Presently he discovered that it was delightful to shut youreyes and nod your head and pretend that you were going to sleep; itwas like being in a swing that went up and up and never came downagain. It was like being in a rowing-boat on the river after asteamer had gone by. It was like lying in a cradle under a lamplitceiling, a cradle that rocked gently to and fro while mother sangfar-away songs. 

He was still a baby when he woke up, and he slipped off his chairand staggered blindly across the room to his mother, with hisknuckles in his eyes like a little, little boy. He climbed into herlap and settled himself down with a grunt of contentment. There wasa mutter of thunder in his ears, and he felt great warm drops ofrain falling on his face. And into his dreams he carried the dimconsciousness that the thunderstorm had begun. 

 II

The next morning at breakfast-time father had not come back, andmother said a lot of things that made Jack feel very uncomfortable. She herself had taught him that any one who said bad things abouthis father was wicked, but now it seemed that she was trying to tellhim something about father that was not nice. She spoke so slowlythat he hardly understood a word she said, though he gathered thatfather had stolen something, and would be put in prison if he wascaught. With a guilty pang he remembered his own dealings with hismoney-box, and he determined to throw away the rest of the sweetswhen, nobody was looking. Then mother made the astounding statementthat he was not to go to school that day, but his sudden joy waschecked a little when she said he was not to go out at all, exceptinto the back garden. It seemed to Jack that he must be ill, butwhen he made this suggestion to mother, she gave up her explanationswith a sigh. Afterwards she kept on saying aloud, "I must think, Imust think!" She said it so often that Jack started keeping count onhis fingers. 

The day went slowly enough, for the garden was wet after thethunderstorm, and mother would not play any games. Just beforetea-time two gentlemen called and talked to mother in theparlour, and after a while they sent for Jack to answer somequestions about father, though mother was there all the time. They seemed nice gentlemen, but mother did not ask them to stopto tea, as Jack expected. He thought that perhaps she was sorrythat she had not done so, for she was very sad all tea-time, andlet him spread his own bread and jam. When tea was over thingswere very dull, and at last Jack started crying because therewas nothing else to do. Presently he heard a little noise andfound that mother was crying as well. This seemed to him soextraordinary that he stopped crying to watch her; the tears randown her cheeks very quickly, and she kept on wiping them awaywith her handkerchief, but if she held her handkerchief to hereyes perhaps they would not be able to come out at all. Itoccurred to him that possibly she was sorry she had said, wickedthings about father, and to comfort her, for it made him feelfidgety to see her cry, he whispered to her that he would nottell. But she stared at him hopelessly through her red eyelids, and he felt that he had not said the right thing. She called himher poor boy, and yet it appeared that he was not ill. It wasall very mysterious and uncomfortable, and it would be a goodthing when father came back and everything went on as before, even though he had to go back to school. 

Later on the woman from the mill came in to sit with mother. Shebrought Jack some sweets, but instead of playing with him she burstinto tears. She made more noise when she cried than mother; in facthe was afraid that in a minute he would have to laugh at hersnortings, so he went into the parlour and sat there in the dark, eating his sweets, and knitting his brow over the complexities oflife. He could see five stars, and there was a light behind the redcurtain of the front bedroom at Arber's farm. It was about twelvetimes as large as a star, and a much prettier colour. By nearlyclosing his eyes he could see everything double, so that there wereten stars and two red lights; he was trying to make everything cometreble when the gate clicked and he saw his father's shadow. He wasdelighted with this happy end to a tiresome day, and as he ranthrough the passage he called out to mother to say that father wasback. Mother did not answer, but he heard a bit of noise in thekitchen as he opened the front door. 

He said "Good evening" in the grown-up voice that father encouraged, but father slipped in and shut the door without saying a word. Everynight when he came back from the post-office he brought Jack thegummed edgings off the sheets of stamps, and Jack held out his handfor them as a matter of course. Automatically father felt in hisovercoat pocket and pulled out a great handful. "Take care of them, they're the last you'll get, " he said; but when Jack asked why, hisfather looked at him with the same hopeless expression that he hadfound in his mother's eyes a short while before. Jack felt a littlecross that every one should be so stupid. 

When they went into the kitchen everybody looked very strange, andJack sat down in the corner and listened for an explanation. As arule the conversation of the grown-up people did not amuse him, buttonight he felt that something had happened, and that if he keptquiet he might find out what it was. He had noticed before that whenthe grown-ups talked they always said the same things over and overagain, and now they were worse than usual. Father said, "It's nogood, I've got to go through it;" the mill-woman said, "Whatever madeyou do it, George?" And mother said, "Nothing will ever happen to meagain!" They all went on saying these things till Jack grew tired oflistening, and started plaiting his stamp-paper into a mat. If youdid it very neatly it was almost as good as an ordinary sheet ofpaper by the time you had finished. By and by, while he was still atwork, the mill-woman brought him his supper on a plate, and raisinghis head he saw that father and mother were sitting close together, looking at each other, and saying nothing at all. He was verydisappointed that although father had come home they had not had anyjokes all the evening, and as they were all so dull he did not verymuch mind being sent to bed when he had finished his supper. When hesaid good-night to father, he noticed that his boots were very muddy, as if he had walked a long way like a common postman. He made a jokeabout this, but they all looked at him as if he had said somethingwrong, so he hurried out of the room, glad to get away from thesepeople whose looks had no reasonable significance, and whose wordshad no discoverable meaning. It had been a bad day, and he hopedmother would let him go back to school the next morning. 

And yet though he took off his clothes and got into bed, the day wasnot quite over. He had only dozed for a few minutes when he wasroused by a noise down below, and slipping out on to the staircase heheard the mill-woman saying good-night in the passage. When she hadgone and the door had banged behind her, he listened still, and heardhis mother crying and his father talking on and on in a strange, hoarse voice. Somehow these incomprehensible sounds made him feellonely, and he would have liked to have gone downstairs and sat onhis mother's lap and blinked drowsily in his father's face, as he haddone often enough before. But he was always shy in the presence ofstrangers, and he felt that he did not know this woman who wept andthis man who did not laugh. His father was his play-friend, thesharer of all his fun; his mother was a quiet woman who sat andsewed, and sometimes told them not to be silly, which was the bestjoke of all. It was not right for people to alter. But the thought ofhis bedroom made him desolate, and at last he plucked up his courage, and crept downstairs on bare feet. Father and mother had gone backinto the kitchen, and he peeped through the crack of the door to seewhat they were doing. Mother was still crying, always crying, but hehad to change his position before he could see father. Then he turnedon his heels and ran upstairs trembling with fear and disgust. Forfather, the man of all the jokes, the man of whom burglars wereafraid and compared with whom all other little boys' fathers were asdirt, was crying like a little girl. 

He jumped into bed and pulled the bedclothes over his face to shutout the ugliness of the world. 

 III

When Jack woke up the next morning he found that the room was full ofsunshine, and that father was standing at the end of the bed. Themoment Jack opened his eyes, he began telling him something in aserious voice, which was alone sufficient to prevent Jack fromunderstanding what he said. Besides, he used a lot of long words, andJack thought that it was silly to use long words before breakfast, when nobody could be expected to remember what they meant. Father'sbody neatly fitted the square of the window, and the sunbeams shonein all round it and made it look splendid; and if Jack had notalready forgotten the unfortunate impression of the night before, this would have enabled him to overcome it. Every now and then fatherstopped to ask him if he understood, and he said he did, hoping tofind out what it was all about later on. It seemed, however, thatfather was not going to the post-office any more, and this causedJack to picture a series of delightfully amusing days. When fatherhad finished talking he appeared to expect Jack to say something, butJack contented himself with trying to look interested, for he knewthat it was always very stupid of little boys not to understandthings they didn't understand. In reality he felt as if he had beenlistening while his father argued aloud with himself, talking up anddown like an earthquake map. 

At breakfast they were still subdued, but afterwards, as the morningwore on, father became livelier and helped Jack to build a hut inthe back garden. They built it of bean-sticks against the wall at theend, and father broke up a packing-case to get planks for the roof. Only mother still had a sad face, and it made Jack angry with her, that she should be such a spoil-fun. After dinner, while Jack wasplaying in the hut, Mr. Simmons, of the police-station, and anothergentleman called to take father for a walk, and Jack went down to thefront to see them off. Jack knew Mr. Simmons very well; he had beento tea with his little boy, but though he thought him a fine sort ofman he could not help feeling proud of his father when he saw themside by side. Mr. Simmons looked as if he were ashamed of himself, while father walked along with square shoulders and a high head as ifhe had just done something splendid. The other gentleman looked likenothing at all beside father. 

When they were out of sight Jack went into the house and found mothercrying in the kitchen. As he felt more tolerant in his after-dinnermood, he tried to cheer her up by telling her how fine father hadlooked beside the other two men. Mother raised her face, all swollenand spoilt with weeping, and gazed at her son in astonishment. "Theyare taking him to prison, " she wailed, "and God knows what willbecome of us. "

For a moment Jack felt alarmed. Then a thought came to him and hesmiled, like a little boy who has just found a new and delightfulgame. "Never mind, mother, " he said, "we'll help him to escape. "

But mother would not stop crying. 

Shepherd's Boy

The path climbed up and up and threatened to carry me over thehighest point of the downs till it faltered before a suddenoutcrop of chalk and swerved round the hill on the level. I wasgrateful for the respite, for I had been walking all day and myknapsack was growing heavy. Above me in the blue pastures of theskies the cloud-sheep were grazing, with the sun on their snowybacks, and all about me the grey sheep of earth were croppingthe wild pansies that grew wherever the chalk had won a coveringof soil. 

Presently I came upon the shepherd standing erect by the path, atall, spare man with a face that the sun and the wind had robbed ofall expression. The dog at his feet looked more intelligent than he. "You've come up from the valley, " he said as I passed; "perhapsyou'll have seen my boy?"

"I'm sorry, I haven't, " I said, pausing. 

"Sorrow breaks no bones, " he muttered, and strode away with his dogat his heels. It seemed to me that the dog was apologetic for hismaster's rudeness. 

I walked on to the little hill-girt village, where I had made up mymind to pass the night. The man at the village shop said he would putme up, so I took off my knapsack and sat down on a sackful of cattlecake while the bacon was cooking. 

"If you came over the hill, you'll have met shepherd, " said the man, "and he'll have asked you for his boy. "

"Yes, but I hadn't seen him. "

The shopman nodded. "There are clever folk who say you can see him, and clever folk who say you can't. The simple ones like you and me, we say nothing, but we don't see him. Shepherd hasn't got no boy. "

"What! is it a joke?"

"Well, of course it may be, " said the shop-man guardedly, "though Ican't say I've heard many people laughing at it yet. You see, shepherd's boy he broke his neck. . . . 

"That was in the days before they built the fence above the bigchalk-pit that you passed on your left coming down. A dangerousplace it used to be for the sheep, so shepherd's boy he used to liealong there to stop them dropping into it, while shepherd's dog hestopped them from going too far. And shepherd he used to come downhere and have his glass, for he took it then like you or me. He'sblue ribbon now. 

"It was one night when the mists were out on the hills, and maybeshepherd had had a glass too much, or maybe he got a bit lost in thesmoke. But when he went up there to bring them home, he startsdriving them into the pit as straight as could be. Shepherd's boy hehollered out and ran to stop them, but four-and-twenty of them wentover, and the lad he went with them. You mayn't believe me, but fiveof them weren't so much as scratched, though it's a sixty feet drop. Likely they fell soft on top of the others. But shepherd's boy he wasdone. 

"Shepherd he's a bit spotty now, and most times he thinks the boy'sstill with him. And there are clever folk who'll tell you thatthey've seen the boy helping shepherd's dog with the sheep. Thatwould be a ghost now, I shouldn't wonder. I've never seen it, butthen I'm simple, as you might say. 

"But I've had two boys myself, and it seems to me that a boy likethat, who didn't eat and didn't get into mischief, and did his work, would be the handiest kind of boy to have about the place. "

The Passing of Edward

I found Dorothy sitting sedately on the beach, with a mass of blackseaweed twined in her hands and her bare feet sparkling white in thesun. Even in the first glow of recognition I realised that she waspaler than she had been the summer before, and yet I cannot blamemyself for the tactlessness of my question. 

"Where's Edward?" I said; and I looked about the sands for a sailorsuit and a little pair of prancing legs. 

While I looked Dorothy's eyes watched mine inquiringly, as if shewondered what I might see. 

"Edward's dead, " she said simply. "He died last year, after youleft. "

For a moment I could only gaze at the child in silence, and askmyself what reason there was in the thing that had hurt her so. Nowthat I knew that Edward played with her no more, I could see thatthere was a shadow upon her face too dark for her years, and that shehad lost, to some extent, that exquisite carelessness of poise whichmakes children so young. Her voice was so calm that I might havethought her forgetful had I not seen an instant of patent pain in herwide eyes. 

"I'm sorry, " I said at length "very, very, sorry indeed. I hadbrought down my car to take you for a drive, as I promised. "

"Oh! Edward _would_ have liked that, " she answered thoughtfully; "hewas so fond of motors. " She swung round suddenly and looked at thesands behind her with staring eyes. 

"I thought I heard--" she broke off in confusion. 

I, too, had believed for an instant that I had heard somethingthat was not the wind or the distant children or the smooth seahissing along the beach. During that golden summer which linkedme with the dead, Edward had been wont, in moments of elation, to puff up and down the sands, in artistic representation of anobby, noisy motor-car. But the dead may play no more, and therewas nothing there but the sands and the hot sky and Dorothy. 

"You had better let me take you for a run, Dorothy, " I said. "The manwill drive, and we can talk as we go along. "

She nodded gravely, and began pulling on her sandy stockings. 

"It did not hurt him, " she said inconsequently. 

The restraint in her voice pained me like a blow. 

"Oh, don't, dear, don't!" I cried, "There is nothing to do butforget. "

"I have forgotten, quite, " she answered, pulling at her shoe-laceswith calm fingers. "It was ten months ago. "

We walked up to the front, where the car was waiting, and Dorothysettled herself among the cushions with a little sigh of contentment, the human quality of which brought me a certain relief. If only shewould laugh or cry! I sat down by her side, but the man waited by theopen door. 

"What is it?" I asked. 

"I'm sorry, sir, " he answered, looking about him in confusion, "Ithought I saw a young gentleman with you. "

He shut the door with a bang, and in a minute we were running throughthe town. I knew that Dorothy was watching my face with her woundedeyes; but I did not look at her until the green fields leapt up oneither side of the white road. 

"It is only for a little while that we may not see him, " I said; "allthis is nothing. "

"I have forgotten, " she repeated. "I think this is a very nicemotor. "

I had not previously complained of the motor, but I was wishing thenthat it would cease its poignant imitation of a little dead boy, aboy who would play no more. By the touch of Dorothy's sleeve againstmine I knew that she could hear it too. And the miles flew by, greenand brown and golden, while I wondered what use I might be in theworld, who could not help a child to forget, Possibly there wasanother way, I thought. 

"Tell me how it happened, " I said. 

Dorothy looked at me with inscrutable eyes, and spoke in a voicewithout emotion. 

"He caught a cold, and was very ill in bed. I went in to see him, and he was all white and faded. I said to him, `How are you Edward?'and he said, `I shall get up early in the morning to catch beetles. 'I didn't see him any more. "

"Poor little chap!" I murmured. 

"I went to the funeral, " she continued monotonously, "It was veryrainy, and I threw a little bunch of flowers down into the hole. There was a whole lot of flowers there; but I think Edward likedapples better than flowers. "

"Did you cry?" I said cruelly. 

She paused. "I don't know. I suppose so. It was a long time ago; Ithink I have forgotten. "

Even while she spoke I heard Edward puffing along the sands: Edwardwho had been so fond of apples. 

"I cannot stand this any longer, " I said aloud. "Let's get out andwalk in the woods for a change. "

She agreed, with a depth of comprehension that terrified me; and themotor pulled up with a jerk at a spot where hardly a post served tomark where the woods commenced and the wayside grass stopped. We tookone of the dim paths which the rabbits had made and forced our waythrough the undergrowth into the peaceful twilight of the trees. 

"You haven't got very sunburnt this year, " I said as we walked. 

"I don't know why. I've been out on the beach all the days. Sometimes I've played, too. "

I did not ask her what games she had played, or who had been herplay-friend. Yet even there in the quiet woods I knew that Edward washolding her back from me. It is true that, in his boy's way, he hadbeen fond of me; but I should not have dared to take her out withouthim in the days when his live lips had filled the beach with song, and his small brown body had danced among the surf. Now it seemedthat I had been disloyal to him. 

And presently we came to a clearing where the leaves of forgottenyears lay brown and rotten beneath our feet, and the air was full ofthe dryness of death. 

"Let's be going back. What do you think, Dorothy?" I said. 

"I think, " she said slowly, --"I think that this would be a very goodplace to catch beetles. "

A wood is full of secret noises, and that is why, I suppose, weheard a pair of small quick feet come with a dance of triumphthrough the rustling bracken. For a minute we listened deeply, andthen Dorothy broke from my side with a piercing call on her lips. 

"Oh, Edward, Edward!" she cried; "Edward!"

But the dead may play no more, and presently she came back to me withthe tears that are the riches of childhood streaming down her face. 

"I can hear him, I can hear him, " she sobbed; "but I cannot see him. Never, never again. "

And so I led her back to the motor. But in her tears I seemed tofind a promise of peace that she had not known before. 

Now Edward was no very wonderful little boy; it may be that he wasjealous and vain and greedy; yet now, it seemed as he lay in hissmall grave with the memory of Dorothy's flowers about him, he hadwrought this kindness for his sister. Yes, even though we heard nomore than the birds in the branches and the wind swaying the scentedbracken; even though he had passed with another summer, and the deadand the love of the dead may rise no more from the grave. 

The Story Of A Book

 I. THE WRITER

The history of a book must necessarily begin with the history of itsauthor, for surely in these enlightened days neither the youngest northe oldest of critics can believe that works of art are found undergooseberry-bushes or in the nests of storks. In truth, I am by nomeans sure that everybody knew this before the publication of "TheMan Shakespeare, " and for the sake of a mystified posterity it may bewell to explain that there was once a school of criticism thatthought it indecent to pry into that treasure-house of individualityfrom which, if we reject the nursery hypotheses mentioned above, itis clearly obvious that authors derive their works. That the dramamust needs be closely related to the dramatist is just one of thosesimple discoveries that invariably elude the subtle professionalmind; but in this wiser hour I may be permitted to assume that theauthor was the conscious father of his novel, and that he did notfind it surprisingly in his pocket one morning, like a bad shillingtaken in change from the cabman overnight. 

Before he published his novel at the ripe age of thirty-seven theauthor had lived an irreproachable and gentlemanly life. Born with atleast a German-silver spoon in his mouth, he passed, after a normallyeventful childhood, through a respectable public school, and spentseveral agreeable years at Cambridge without taking a degree. He thenwent into his uncle's office in the City, where he idled daily fromten to four, till in due course he was admitted to a partnership, which enabled him to reduce his hours of idleness to eleven to three. These details become important when we reflect that from hischildhood on the author had a great deal of time at his disposal. Ifhe had been entirely normal, he would have accepted the conventionsof the society to which he belonged, and devoted himself to motoring, bridge, and the encouragement of the lighter drama. But somedeep-rooted habit of his childhood, or even perhaps some remotehereditary taint, led him to spend an appreciable fraction of hisleisure time in the reading of works of fiction. Unlike most loversof light literature, he read with a certain mental concentration, andwas broad-minded enough to read good novels as well as bad ones. 

It is a pleasant fact that it is impossible to concentrate one's mindon anything without in time becoming wiser, and in the course ofyears the author became quite a skilful critic of novels. From thefirst he had allowed his reading to colour his impressions of life, and had obediently lived in a world of blacks and whites, of heroesand heroines, of villains and adventuresses, until the gratefuldiscovery of the realistic school of fiction permitted him to believethat men and women were for the most part neither good nor bad, buttabby. Moreover, the leisurely reading of many sentences had givenhim some understanding of the elements of style. He perceived thatsome combinations of words were illogical, and that others wereunlovely to the ear; and at the same time he acquired a vocabularyand a knowledge of grammar and punctuation that his earlier educationhad failed to give him. He read new novels at his writing-table, andtook pleasure in correcting the mistakes of their authors in ink. When he had done this, he would hand them to his wife, who alwaysread the end first, and, indeed, rarely pursued her investigation ofa book beyond the last chapter. 

We buy knowledge with illusions, and pay a high price for it, for theacquirement of quite a small degree of wisdom will deprive us of alarge number of pleasant fancies. So it was with the author, whofound his joy in novel-reading diminishing rapidly as his criticalknowledge increased. He was no longer able to lose himself betweenthe covers of a romance, but slid his paper-knife between the pagesof a book with an unwholesome readiness to be irritated by theignorance and folly of the novelist. His destructive criticism ofworks of fiction became so acute that it was natural that hisunlettered friends should suggest that he himself ought to write anovel. For a long while he was content to receive the flatteringsuggestion with a reticent smile that masked his conviction thatthere was a difference between criticism and creation. But as he grewolder the imperfections in the books he read ceased to give him thethrill of the successful explorer in sight of the expected, and timebegan to trickle too slowly through his idle fingers. One day he satdown and wrote "Chapter I. " at the head of a sheet of quarto paper. 

It seemed to him that the difficulty was only one of selection, andhe wrote two-thirds of a novel with a breathless ease of creationthat made him marvel at himself and the pitiful struggles of lessgifted novelists. Then in a moment of insight he picked up hismanuscript and realised that what he had written was childishlycrude. He had felt his story while he wrote it, but somehow or otherhe had failed to get his emotions on paper, and he saw quite clearlythat it was worse and not better than the majority of the books whichhe had held up to ridicule. 

There was a certain doggedness in his character that might have madehim a useful citizen but for that unfortunate hereditary spoon, andhe wrote "Chapter I. " at the head of a new sheet of quarto paper longbefore the library fire had reached the heart of his first lucklessmanuscript. This time he wrote more slowly, and with a waningconfidence that failed him altogether when he was about half-waythrough. Reading the fragment dispassionately he thought there weregood pages in it, but, taken as a whole, it was unequal, and movedforward only by fits and starts. He began again with his latemanuscript spread about him on the table for reference. At the fifthattempt he succeeded in writing a whole novel. 

In the course of his struggles he had acquired a philosophy ofcomposition. Especially he had learned to shun those enchanted hourswhen the labour of creation became suspiciously easy, for he hadfound by experience that the work he did in these moments ofinspiration was either bad in itself or out of key with the precedingchapters. He thought that inspiration might be useful to poets orwriters of short stories, but personally as a novelist he found it anuisance. By dint of hard work, however, he succeeded in eliminatingits evil influence from his final draft. He told himself that he hadno illusions as to the merits of his book. He knew he was not a manof genius, but he knew also that the grammar and the punctuation ofhis novel were far above the average of such works, and although hecould not read Sir Thomas Browne or Walter Pater with pleasure, hefelt sure that his book was written in a straightforward andgentlemanly style. He was prepared to be told that his use of thecolon was audacious, and looked forward with pleasure to an agreeablecontroversy on the question. 

He read his book to his friends, who made suggestions that would haveinvolved its rewriting from one end to the other. He read it to hisenemies, who told him that it was nearly good enough to publish; heread it to his wife, who said that it was very nice, and that it wastime to dress for dinner. No one seemed to realise that it was themost important thing he had ever done in his life. This quickened hiseagerness to get it published--an eagerness only tempered by a veryreal fear of those knowing dogs, the critics. He could not forgetthat he had criticised a good many books himself in terms that wouldhave made the authors abandon their profession if they had but heardhis strictures; and he had read notices in the papers that would havemade him droop with shame if they had referred to any work of his. When these sombre thoughts came to him he would pick up his book andread it again, and in common fairness he had to admit to himself thathe found it uncommonly good. 

One day, after a whole batch of ungrammatical novels had reached himfrom the library, he posted his manuscript to his favouritepublisher. He had heard stories of masterpieces many times rejected, so he did not tell his wife what he had done. 

 II. The Sleepy Publisher

The publisher to whom our author had confided his manuscript stood, like all publishers, at the very head of his profession. His businesswas conducted on sound conservative lines, which means that though hehad regretfully abandoned the three-volume novel for the novelpublished at six shillings, he was not among the intrepidrevolutionaries who were beginning to produce new fiction at a stilllower price. Besides novels he published solid works of biography atthirty-one and six, art books at a guinea, travel books at fifteenshillings, flighty historical works at twelve-and-sixpence, and cheapeditions of Montaigne's Essays and "Robinson Crusoe" at a shilling. Some idea of his business methods may be derived from the fact thatit pleased him to reflect that all the other publishers wereproducing exactly the same books as he was. And though he would admitthat the trade had been ruined by competition and the outrageousroyalties demanded by successful authors, and, further, that he madea loss on every separate department of his business, in somemysterious fashion the business as a whole continued to pay him verywell. He left the active part of the management to a confidentialclerk, and contented himself with signing cheques and interviewingauthors. 

With such a publisher the fate of our author's book was never indoubt. If it was lacking in those qualities that might be expected tocommend it to the reading public, it was conspicuously rich in thosemerits that determine the favourable judgment of publishers' readers. It was above all things a gentlemanly book, without violence andwithout eccentricities. It was carefully and grammatically written;but it had not that exotic literary flavour which is so tiresome on along railway journey. It could be put into the hands of anyschoolgirl, and at most would merely send her to sleep. The onlything that could be said against it was that the author's dread ofinspiration had made it grievously dull, but it was the publisher'sopinion that after a glut of sensational fiction the six-shillingpublic had come to regard dullness as the hall-mark of literarymerit. He had no illusions as to its possible success, but, on theother hand, he knew that he could not lose any money on it, so hewrote a letter to the author inviting him to an interview. 

As soon as he had read the letter the author told himself that hehad been certain all along that his book would be accepted. Nevertheless, he went to the interview moved by certain emotionalflutterings against which circumstance had guarded him ever sincehis boyhood. He found this mild excitation of the nervous system byno means unpleasant. It was like digesting a new and subtle liqueurthat made him light-footed and tingled in the tips of his fingers. He recalled a phrase that had greatly pleased him in the early daysof his novel. "As the sun colours flowers, so Art colours life. " Itseemed to him that this was beginning to come true, and that lifewas already presenting itself to him in a gayer, brighter dress. Hereached the publisher's office, therefore, in an unwontedlyreceptive mood, and was tremendously impressed by the rudeness ofthe clerks, who treated authors as mendicants and expressed theiropinion of literature by handling books as if they were bundles offirewood. 

The publisher looked at him under heavy eyelids, recognised hisposition in the social scale, and reflected with satisfaction thathis acquaintances could be relied on to purchase at least a hundredcopies. The interview did not at all take the lines that the authorin his innocence had expected, and in a surprisingly short space oftime he found himself bowed out, with the duplicate of a contract inthe pocket of his overcoat. In the outer office the confidentialclerk took him in hand and led him to the door of an enormous cellar, lit by electricity and filled from one end to the other with balesand heaps of books. "Books!" said the confidential clerk, with thesmile of a gamekeeper displaying his hand-reared pheasants. "Thereare a great many, " the author said timidly. 

"Of course, we do not keep our stock here, " the clerk explained. "These are just samples. " It was sometimes necessary to remindinexperienced writers that the publication of their first book wasonly a trivial incident in the history of a great publishing house. The author had a sad vision of his novel as a little brick in amonstrous pyramid built of books, and the clerk mentally decided thathe was not the kind of man to turn up every day at the office to askthem how they were getting on. 

The author was a little dazed when he emerged into the street and thesunshine. His book, which an hour before had seemed the mostimportant thing in the world, had, become almost insignificant in thelight of that vast collection of printed matter, and in some subtleway he felt that he had dwindled with it. The publisher had praisedit without enthusiasm and had not specified any of its merits; he hadnot even commented on his fantastic use of the colon. The author hadlived with it now for many months--it had become a part of hispersonality, and he felt that he had betrayed himself in deliveringit into the hands of strangers who could not understand it. He hadthe reticence of the well-bred Englishman, and though he told himselfreassuringly that his novel in no way reflected his private life, hecould not quite overcome the sentiment that it was a little vulgar toallow alien eyes to read the product of his most intimate thoughts. He had really been shocked at the matter-of-fact way in which everyone at the office had spoken of his book, and the sight of all theother books with which it would soon be inextricably confused hademphasised the painful impression. This all seemed to rob theauthor's calling of its presumed distinction, and he looked at themen and women who passed him on the pavement, and wondered whetherthey too had written books. 

This mood lasted for some weeks, at the end of which time he receivedthe proofs, which he read and re-read with real pleasure beforesetting himself to correcting them with meticulous care. He performedthis task with such conscientiousness, and made so many minoralterations--he changed most of those flighty colons to moreconventional semicolons--that the confidential clerk swore terriblywhen he glanced at the proofs before handing them to a boy, withinstructions to remove three-quarters of the offending emendations. A week or two later there happened one of those strange littleincidents that make modern literary history. It was a bright, sunnyafternoon; the publisher had been lunching with the star author ofthe firm, a novelist whose books were read wherever the British flagwaved and there was a circulating library to distribute them, andnow, in the warm twilight of the lowered blinds he was enjoyingprofound thoughts, delicately tinted by burgundy and old port. Theshrewdest men make mistakes, and certainly it was hardly wise of theconfidential clerk to choose this peaceful moment to speak about ourauthor's book. "I suppose we shall print a thousand?" he said. "Fivethousand!" ejaculated the publisher. What was he thinking about? Washe filling up an imaginary income-tax statement, or was he trying toestimate the number of butterflies that seemed to float in the ambershadows of the room? The clerk did not know. "I suppose you mean onethousand, sir?" he said gently. The publisher was now wide awake. Hehad lost all his butterflies, and he was not the man to allow himselfto be sleepy in the afternoon. "I said five thousand!" The clerk bithis lip and left the room. 

The author never heard of this brief dialogue; probably if he hadbeen present he would have missed its significance. He would neverhave connected it with the flood of paragraphs that appeared in thePress announcing that the acumen of the publisher had discovered anew author of genius--paragraphs wherein he was compared withDickens, Thackeray, Flaubert, Richardson, Sir Walter Besant, ThomasBrowne, and the author of "An Englishwoman's Love-letters. " As itwas, it did not occur to him to wonder why the publisher should spendso much money on advertising a book of which he had seemed to havebut a half-hearted appreciation. After all it was his book, and theauthor felt that it was only natural that as the hour of publicationdrew near the world of letters should show signs of a dignifiedexcitement. 

 III. The Critic Errant

There are some emotions so intimate that the most intrepid writerhesitates to chronicle them lest it should be inferred that hehimself is in the confessional. We have endeavoured to show ourauthor as a level-headed English-man with his nerves well undercontrol and an honest contempt for emotionalism in the stronger sex;but his feelings in the face of the first little bundle of reviewssent him by the press-cutting agency would prove this portraitincomplete. He noticed with a vague astonishment that the flimsyscraps of paper were trembling in his fingers like banknotes in thehands of a gambler, and he laid them down on the breakfast-table indisgust of the feminine weakness. This unmistakable proof that he hadwritten a book, a real book, made him at once happy and uneasy. Thesefragments of smudged prints were his passport into a new anddelightful world; they were, it might be said, the name of hisdestination in the great republic of letters, and yet he hesitated tolook at them. He heard of the curious blindness of authors that madeit impossible for them to detect the most egregious failings in theirown work, and it occurred to him that this might be his malady. Why:had he published his book? He felt at that moment that he had takentoo great a risk. It would have been so easy to have had it privatelyprinted and contented himself with distributing it among his friends. But these people were paid for writing about books, these critics whohad sent Keats to his gallipots and Swinburne to his fig-tree, mightwell have failed to have recognised that his book was sacred, becauseit was his own. 

When he had at last achieved a fatalistic tranquillity, he once morepicked up the notices, and this time he read them through carefully. The _Rutlandshire Gazette_ quoted Shakespeare, the _Thrums Times_compared him with Christopher North, the _Stamford-bridge Herald_thought that his style resembled that of Macaulay, but they wereunanimous in praising his book without reservation. It seemed to theauthor that he was listening to the authentic voice of fame. Herested his chin on his hand and dreamed long dreams. 

He could afford in this hour of his triumph to forget the annoyanceshe had undergone since his book was first accepted. The publisher, with a large first edition to dispose of, had been rather more thanfirm with the author. He had changed the title of the book from"Earth's Returns"--a title that had seemed to the author dignifiedand pleasantly literary--to "The Improbable Marquis, " which seemedto him to mean nothing at all. Moreover, instead of giving the booka quiet and scholarly exterior, he had bound it in boards of aninjudicious heliotrope, inset with a nasty little coloured pictureof a young woman with a St. Bernard dog. This binding revolted theauthor, who objected, with some reason, that in all his book therewas no mention of a dog of that description, or, indeed, of any dogat all. The book was wrapped in an outer cover that bore arecommendation of its contents, starting with a hideous splitinfinitive and describing it as an exquisite social comedy writtenfrom within. On the whole it seemed to the author that his book wasflying false and undesirable colours, and since art lies outside thedomesticities, he was hardly relieved when his wife told him thatshe thought the binding was very pretty. The author had shuddered noless at the little paragraphs that the publisher had inserted in thenewspapers concerning his birth and education, wherein he wasbracketed with other well-known writers whose careers at theUniversity had been equally undistinguished. But now that, likeByron, he found himself famous among the bacon and eggs, he was inno mood to remember these past vexations. As soon as he had finishedbreakfast he withdrew himself to his study and wrote half an essayon the Republic of Letters. 

In a country wherein fifteen novels--or is it fifty?--arepublished every day of the year, the publisher's account of thegoods he sells is bound to have a certain value. Money talks, as Mr. Arnold Bennett once observed--indeed today it is grownquite garrulous--and when a publisher spends a lot of money onadvertising a book, the inference is that some one believes thebook to be good. This will not secure a book good notices, butit will secure it notices of some kind or other, and that, asevery publisher knows, is three-quarters of the battle. Theaverage critic today is an old young man who has not failed inliterature or art, possibly because he has not tried toaccomplish anything in either. By the time he has acquired someskill in criticism he has generally ceased to be a critic, through no fault of his own, but through sheer weariness ofspirit. When a man is very young he can dance upon everyone whohas not written a masterpiece with a light heart, but afterthis period of joyous savagery there follows fatigue and acertain pity. The critic loses sight of his first magnificentstandards, and becomes grateful for even the smallest merit inthe books he is compelled to read. Like a mother giving apowder to her child, he is at pains to disguise his timidcensure with a teaspoonful of jam. As the years pass by hebecomes afraid of these books that continue to appear inunreasonable profusion, and that have long ago destroyed hisfaith in literature, his love of reading, his sense of humour, and the colouring matter of his hair. He realises, with adreadful sense of the infinite, that when he is dead and buriedthis torrent of books will overwhelm the individualities of hissuccessors, bound like himself to a lifelong examination of theinsignificant. 

Timidity is certainly the note of modern criticism, which is rarelyroused to indignation save when confronted by the infrequent outrageof some intellectual anarchist. If the critics of the more importantjournals were not so enthusiastic as their provincial confreres, they were at least gentle with "The Improbable Marquis. " A critic ofgenius would have said that such books were not worth writing, stillless worth reading. An outspoken critic would have said that it wastoo dull to be an acceptable presentation of a life that we all findinteresting. As it was, most of the critics praised the style inwhich it was written because it was quite impossible to call it anenthralling or even an entertaining book. Some of the youngercritics, who still retained an interest in their own personalities, discovered that its vacuity made it a convenient mirror by means ofwhich they would display the progress of their own genius. In commongratitude they had to close these manifestations of their merit witha word or two in praise of the book they were professing to review. "The Improbable Marquis" was very favourably received by the Pressin general. 

It was, as the publisher made haste to point out in hisadvertisements, a book of the year, and, reassured by its flippantexterior, the libraries and the public bought it with avidity. Theauthor pasted his swollen collection of newspaper-cuttings into analbum, and carefully revised his novel in case a second editionshould be called for. There was one review which he had read moreoften than any of the others, and nevertheless he hesitated toinclude it in his collection. "This book, " wrote the anonymousreviewer, "is as nearly faultless a book may be that possesses nopositive merit. It differs only from seven-eighths of the novelsthat are produced today in being more carefully written. The authorhad nothing to say, and he has said it. " That was all, threemalignant lines in a paper of no commercial importance, the sort ofthing that was passed round the publisher's office with anappreciative chuckle. In the face of the general amiability of thePress, such a notice in an obscure journal could do the book noharm. 

Only the author sat hour after hour in his study with that diminutivescrap of paper before him on the table, and wondered if it wastrue. 

 IV. Fame

It was some little time before the public, the mysterious section ofthe public that reads works of fiction, discovered that thepublisher, aided by the normal good-humour of the critics, hadpersuaded them to sacrifice some of their scant hours of intellectualrecreation on a work of portentous dullness. Therefor the literaryaudience has its sense of humour--they amused themselves for a whileby recommending the book to their friends, and the sales creptsteadily up to four thousand, and there stayed with an unmistakableair of finality. If the book had had any real literary merit its lifewould have started at that point, for the weary comments of reviewersand the strident outcries of publishers tend to obscure rather thanreveal the permanent value of a book. But six months afterpublication "The Improbable Marquis" was completely forgotten, saveby the second-hand booksellers, who found themselves embarrassed witha number of books for which no one seemed anxious to pay six-pence, in spite of the striking heliotrope binding. The publisher, who wasaware of this circumstance, offered the author five hundred copies atcost price, and the author bought them, and sent them to publiclibraries, without examining the motive for his action too closely. There were moments when he regarded the success of his book withsuspicion. He would have preferred the praise that had greeted it tohave been less violent and more clearly defined. Of all thecriticisms, the only one that lingered in his mind was the curtcomment, "The author had nothing to say, and he has said it. " Hethought it was unfair, but he had remembered it. At the same time, inexamining his own character, he could not find that masterfulnessthat seemed to him necessary in a great man. But for the most part hewas content to accept his new honours with a placid satisfaction, andto smile genially upon a world that was eager to credit him withqualities that possibly he did not possess. For if his book was nolonger read his fame as an author seemed to be established on a rock. Society, with a larger S than that which he had hitherto adorned, wasdelighted to find after two notable failures that genius could stillbe presentable, and the author was rather more than that. He wasrich, he had that air of the distinguished army officer which fallsso easily to those who occupy the pleasant position of sleepingpartner in the City, and he had just the right shade of amusedmodesty with which to meet inquiries as to his literary intentions. In a word, he was an author of whom any country--even France, thatprolific parent of presentable authors--would have been proud. Evenhis wife, who had thought it an excellent joke that her husbandshould have written a book, had to take him seriously as an authorwhen she found that their social position was steadily improving. With feminine tact she gave him a fountain-pen on his birthday, fromwhich he was meant to conclude that she believed in his mission as anartist. 

Meanwhile, with the world at his feet, the author spent anappreciable part of his time in visiting the second-hand bookshopsand buying copies of his book absurdly cheap. He carried these waifshome and stored them in an attic secretly, for he would have found ithard to explain his motives to the intellectually childless. In thefirst flush of authorship he had sent a number of presentation copiesof his book to writers whom he admired, and he noticed withoutbitterness that some of these volumes with their neatly turnedinscriptions were coming back to him through this channel. At all thesecond-hand bookshops he saw long-haired young men looking over thebooks without buying them, and he thought these must be authors, buthe was too shy to speak to them, though he had a great longing toknow other writers. He wanted to ask them questions concerning theirmethods of work, for he was having trouble with his second book. Hehad read an article in which the writer said that the great fault ofmodern fiction was that authors were more concerned to produce goodchapters than to produce good books. It seemed to him that in hisfirst book he had only aimed at good sentences, but he knew no onewith whom he could discuss such matters. 

One day he found a copy of "The Improbable Marquis" in the CharingCross Road, and was glancing through it with absent-minded interest, when a voice at his elbow said, "I shouldn't buy that if I were you, sir. It's no good!" He looked up and saw a wild young man, withbright eyes and an untidy black beard. "But it's mine; I wrote it, "cried the author. The young man stared at him in dismay. "I'm sorry;I didn't know, " he blurted out, and faded away into the crowd. Theauthor gazed after him wistfully, regretting that he had not hadpresence of mind enough to ask him to lunch. Perhaps the young mancould have told him how he ought to write his second book. 

For somehow or other, at the very moment when his literary positionseemed most secure in the eyes of his wife and his friends, theauthor had lost all confidence in his own powers. He shut himself upin his study every night, and was supposed by an admiring and almosttimorous household to be producing masterpieces, when in reality hewas conducting a series of barren skirmishes between the criticaland the creative elements of his nature. He would write a chapter ortwo in a fine fury of composition, and then would read what he hadwritten with intense disgust. He felt that his second book ought tobe better than his first, and he doubted whether he would even beable to write anything half so good. In his hour of disillusionmenthe recalled the anonymous critic who had treated "The ImprobableMarquis" with such scant respect, and he wrote to him asking him toexpand his judgment. He was prepared to be wounded by the answer, but the form it took surprised him. In reply to his temperate andcourteous letter the critic sent a postcard bearing only five shortwords--"Why did you write it?"

This was bad manners, but the author was sensible enough to see thatit might be good criticism, especially as he found some difficulty inanswering the question. Why had he written a book? Not for money, orfor fame, or to express a personality of which he saw no reason to beproud. All his friends had said that he ought to write a novel, andhe had thought that he could write a better one than the average. Buthe had to admit that such motives seemed to him insufficient. Therewas, perhaps, some mysterious force that drove men to create works ofart, and the critic had seen that his book had lacked this necessaryimpulse. In the light of this new theory the author was roused by asense of injustice. He felt that it should be possible for anyone towrite a good book if they took sufficient pains, and he set himselfto work again with a savage and unproductive energy. 

It seemed to him that in spite of his effort to bear in mind that thewhole should be greater than any part, his chapters broke up intosentences and his sentences into forlorn and ungregarious words. Whenhe looked to his first book for comfort he found the same horridphenomenon taking place in its familiar pages. Sometimes when he wasdisheartened by his fruitless efforts he slipped out into thestreets, fixing his attention on concrete objects to rest his tiredmind. But he could not help noticing that London had discovered thesecret which made his intellectual life a torment. The streets weremore than a mere assemblage of houses, London herself was more than atangled skein of streets, and overhead heaven was more than ameeting-place of individual stars. What was this secret that madewords into a book, houses into cities, and restless and measurablestars into an unchanging and immeasurable universe?

The Bird In The Garden

The room in which the Burchell family lived in Love Street, S. E. , wasunderground and depended for light and air on a grating let into thepavement above. 

Uncle John, who was a queer one, had filled the area with greenplants and creepers in boxes and tins hanging from the grating, sothat the room itself obtained very little light indeed, but therewas always a nice bright green place for the people sitting in it tolook at. Toby, who had peeped into the areas of other little boys, knew that his was of quite exceptional beauty, and it was with acertain awe that he helped Uncle John to tend the plants in themorning, watering them and taking the pieces of paper and strawsthat had fallen through the grating from their hair. "It is a greatmistake to have straws in ones hair, " Uncle John would say gravely;and Toby knew that it was true. 

It was in the morning after they had just been watered that theplants looked and smelt best, and when the sun shone through thegrating and the diamonds were shining and falling through the forest, Toby would tell the baby about the great bird who would one day comeflying through the trees--a bird of all colours, ugly and beautiful, with a harsh sweet voice. "And that will be the end of everything, "said Toby, though of course he was only repeating a story his UncleJohn had told him. 

There were other people in the big, dark room besides Toby and UncleJohn and the baby; dark people who flitted to and fro about secretmatters, people called father and mother and Mr. Hearn, who were aptto kick if they found you in their way, and who never laughed exceptat nights, and then they laughed too loudly. 

"They will frighten the bird, " thought Toby; but they were kind toUncle John because he had a pension. Toby slept in a corner on theground beside the baby, and when father and Mr. Hearn fought atnights he would wake up and watch and shiver; but when this happenedit seemed to him that the baby was laughing at him, and he wouldpinch her to make her stop. One night, when the men were fightingvery fiercely and mother had fallen asleep on the table, Uncle Johnrose from his bed and began singing in a great voice. It was a songToby knew very well about Trafalgar's Bay, but it frightened the twomen a great deal because they thought Uncle John would be too mad tofetch the pension any more. Next day he was quite well, however, andhe and Toby found a large green caterpillar in the garden among theplants. 

"This is a fact of great importance, " said Uncle John, stroking itwith a little stick. "It is a sign!"

Toby used to lie awake at nights after that and listen for the bird, but he only heard the clatter of feet on the pavement and thescreaming of engines far away. 

Later there came a new young woman to live in the cellar--not a darkperson, but a person you could see and speak to. She patted Toby onthe head; but when she saw the baby she caught it to her breast andcried over it, calling it pretty names. 

At first father and Mr. Hearn were both very kind to her, and motherused to sit all day in the corner with burning eyes, but after a timethe three used to laugh together at nights as before, and the womanwould sit with her wet face and wait for the coming of the bird, withToby and the baby and Uncle John, who was a queer one. 

"All we have to do, " Uncle John would say, "is to keep the gardenclean and tidy, and to water the plants every morning so that theymay be very green. " And Toby would go and whisper this to the baby, and she would stare at the ceiling with large, stupid eyes. 

There came a time when Toby was very sick, and he lay all day in hiscorner wondering about wonder. Sometimes the room in which he laybecame so small that he was choked for lack of air, sometimes it wasso large that he screamed out because he felt lonely. He could notsee the dark people then at all, but only Uncle John and the woman, who told him in whispers that her name was "Mummie. " She called himSonny, which is a very pretty name, and when Toby heard it he felt atickling in his sides which he knew to be gladness. Mummie's face waswet and warm and soft, and she was very fond of kissing. Everymorning Uncle John would lift Toby up and show him the garden, andToby would slip out of his arms and walk among the trees and plants. And the place would grow bigger and bigger until it was all theworld, and Toby would lose himself; amongst the tangle of trees andflowers and creepers. He would see butterflies there and tameanimals, and the sky was full of birds of all colours, ugly andbeautiful; but he knew that none of these was the bird, because theirvoices were only sweet. Sometimes he showed these wonders to a littleboy called Toby, who held his hand and called him Uncle John, sometimes he showed them to his mummie and he himself was Toby; butalways when he came back he found himself lying in Uncle John's arms, and, weary from his walk, would fall into a pleasant dreamless sleep. 

It seemed to Toby at this time that a veil hung about him which, dimand unreal in itself, served to make all things dim and unreal. Hedid not know whether he was asleep or awake, so strange was life, sovivid were his dreams. Mummie, Uncle John, the baby, Toby himselfcame with a flicker of the veil and disappeared vaguely withoutcause. It would happen that Toby would be speaking to Uncle John, andsuddenly he would find himself looking into the large eyes of thebaby, turned stupidly towards the ceiling, and again the baby wouldbe Toby himself, a hot, dry little body without legs or arms, thatswayed suspended as if by magic a foot above the bed. 

Then there was the vision of two small feet that moved a long wayoff, and Toby would watch them curiously as kittens do their tails, without knowing the cause of their motion. It was all very wonderfuland very strange, and day by day the veil grew thicker; there was noneed to wake when the sleeptime was so pleasant; there were no darkpeople to kick you in that dreamy place. 

And yet Toby woke--woke to a life and in a place which he had neverknown before. 

He found himself on a heap of rags in a large cellar which dependedfor its light on a grating let into the pavement of the streetabove. On the stone floor of the area and swinging from the gratingwere a few sickly, grimy plants in pots. There must have been, afine sunset up above, for a faint red glow came through the bars andtouched the leaves of the plants. 

There was a lighted candle standing in a bottle on the table, and thecellar seemed full of people. At the table itself two men and a womanwere drinking, though they were already drunk, and beyond in a cornerToby could see the head and shoulders of a tall old man. Beside himthere crouched a woman with a faded, pretty face, and between Tobyand the rest of the room there stood a box in which lay a baby withlarge, wakeful eyes. 

Toby's body tingled with excitement, for this was a new thing; he hadnever seen it before, he had never seen anything before. 

The voice of the woman at the table rose and fell steadily without apause; she was abusing the other woman, and the two drunken men werelaughing at her and shouting her on; Toby thought the other womanlacked spirit because she stayed crouching on the floor and saidnothing. 

At last the woman stopped her abuse, and one of the men turned andshouted an order to the woman on the floor. She stood up and cametowards him, hesitating; this annoyed the man and he swore at herbrutally; when she came near enough he knocked her down with hisfist, and all the three burst out laughing. 

Toby was so excited that he knelt up in his corner and clapped hishands, but the others did not notice because the old man was up andswaying wildly over the woman. He seemed to be threatening the manwho had struck her, and that one was evidently afraid of him, for herose unsteadily and lifted the chair on which he had been sittingabove his head to use as a weapon. 

The old man raised his fist and the chair fell heavily on to hiswrinkled forehead and he dropped to the ground. 

The woman at the table cried out, "The pension!" in her shrill voice, and then they were all quiet, looking. 

Then it seemed to Toby that through the forest there came flying, with a harsh sweet voice and a tumult of wings, a bird of allcolours, ugly and beautiful, and he knew, though later there might bepeople to tell him otherwise, that that was the end of everything. 

Children Of The Moon

The boy stood at the place where the park trees stopped and thesmooth lawns slid away gently to the great house. He was dressed onlyin a pair of ragged knickerbockers and a gaping buttonless shirt, sothat his legs and neck and chest shone silver bare in the moonlight. By day he had a mass of rough golden hair, but now it seemed to broodabove his head like a black cloud that made his face deathly white bycomparison. On his arms there lay a great heap of gleaming dew-wetroses and lilies, spoil of the park flower-beds. Their cool petalstouched his cheek, and filled his nostrils with aching scent. He felthis arms smarting here and there, where the thorns of the roses hadtorn them in the dark, but these delicate caresses of pain onlyserved to deepen to him the wonder of the night that wrapped himabout like a cloak. Behind him there dreamed the black woods, andover his head multitudinous stars quivered and balanced in space; butthese things were nothing to him, for far across the lawn that wasspread knee-deep, with a web of mist there gleamed for his eager eyesthe splendour of a fairy palace. Red and orange and gold, the lightsof the fairy revels shone from a hundred windows and filled him withwonder that he should see with wakeful eyes the jewels that he haddesired so long in sleep. He could only gaze and gaze until hisstraining eyes filled with tears, and set the enchanted lightsdancing in the dark. On his ears, that heard no more the crying ofthe night-birds and the quick stir of the rabbits in the brake, therefell the strains of far music. The flowers in his arms seemed to swayto it, and his heart beat to the deep pulse of the night. 

So enraptured were his senses that he did not notice the coming ofthe girl, and she was able to examine him closely before she calledto him softly through the moonlight. 

"Boy! Boy!"

At the sound of her voice he swung round and looked at her withstartled eyes. He saw her excited little face and her white dress. 

"Are you a fairy?" he asked hoarsely, for the night-mist was in hisvoice. 

"No, " she said, "I'm a little girl. You're a wood-boy, I suppose?"

He stayed silent, regarding her with a puzzled face. Who was thislittle white creature with the tender voice that had slipped sosuddenly out of the night?

"As a matter of fact, " the girl continued, "I've come out to have alook at the fairies. There's a ring down in the wood. You can comewith me if you like, wood-boy. "

He nodded his head silently, for he was afraid to speak to her, andset off through the wood by her side, still clasping the flowers tohis breast. 

"What were you looking at when I found you?" she asked. 

"The palace--the fairy palace, " the boy muttered. 

"The palace?" the girl repeated. "Why, that's not a palace; that'swhere I live. "

The boy looked at her with new awe; if she were a fairy---- But thegirl had noticed that his feet made no sound beside her shoes. 

"Don't the thorns prick your feet, wood-boy?" she asked; but the boysaid nothing, and they were both silent for a while, the girl lookingabout her keenly as she walked, and the boy watching her face. Presently they came to a wide pool where a little tinkling fountainthrew bubbles to the hidden fish. 

"Can you swim?" she said to the boy. 

He shook his head. 

"It's a pity, " said the girl; "we might have had a bathe. It would berather fun in the dark, but it's pretty deep there. We'd better geton to the fairy ring. "

The moon had flung queer shadows across the glade in which the ringlay, and when they stood on the edge listening intently the woodseemed to speak to them with a hundred voices. 

"You can take hold of my hand, if you like, " said the girl, in awhisper. 

The boy dropped his flowers about his white feet and felt for thegirl's hand in the dark. Soon it lay in his own, a warm live thing, that stirred a little with excitement. 

"I'm not afraid, " the girl said; and so they waited. 

 * * * * *

The man came upon them suddenly from among the silver birches. He hada knapsack on his back and his hair was as long as a tramp's. Atsight of him the girl almost screamed, and her hand trembled in theboy's. Some instinct made him hold it tighter. 

"What do you want?" he muttered, in his hoarse voice. 

The man was no less astonished than the children. 

"What on earth are you doing here?" he cried. His voice was mild andreassuring, and the girl answered him promptly. 

"I came out to look for fairies. "

"Oh, that's right enough, " commented the man; "and you, " he said, turning to the boy, "are you after fairies, too? Oh, I see; pickingflowers. Do you mean to sell them?"

The boy shook his head. 

"For my sister, " he said, and stopped abruptly. 

"Is your sister fond of flowers?"

"Yes; she's dead. "

The man looked at him gravely. 

"That's a phrase, " he said, "and phrases are the devil. Who told youthat dead people like flowers?"

"They always have them, " said the boy, blushing for shame of hispretty thought. 

"And what are _you_ looking for?" the girl interrupted. 

The man made a mocking grimace, and glanced around the glade as if hewere afraid of being overheard. 

"Dreams, " he said bluntly. 

The girl pondered this for a moment. 

"And your knapsack?" she began. 

"Yes, " said the man, "it's full of them. "

The children looked at the knapsack with interest, the girl's fingerstingling to undo the straps of it. 

"What are they like?" she asked. 

The man gave a short laugh. 

"Very like yours and his, I expect; when you grow older, young woman, you'll find there's really only one dream possible for a sensibleperson. But you don't want to hear about my troubles. This is more inyour line!" He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a flageolet, which he put to his lips. 

"Listen!" he said. 

To the girl it seemed as though the little tune had leapt from thepipe, and was dancing round the ring like a real fairy, while echocame tripping through the trees to join it. The boy gaped and saidnothing. 

At last, when the fairy was beginning to falter and echo was quiteout of breath, the man took the flageolet from his lips. 

"Well, " he said, with a smile. 

"Thank you very much, " said the girl politely. "I think that was verynice indeed. Oh, boy!" she broke off, "you're hurting my hand!"

The boy's eyes were shining strangely, and he was waving his arms indismay. 

"All the wasted moonlight!" he cried; "the grass is quite wet withit. "

The girl turned to him in surprise. 

"Why, boy, you've found your voice. "

"After that, " said the man gravely, as he put his flageolet back inhis pocket, "I think I will show you the inside of my knapsack. "

The girl bent down eagerly, while he loosened the straps, but gave acry of disappointment when she saw the contents. 

"Pictures!" she said. 

"Pictures, " echoed the man drily, --"pictures of dreams. I don't knowhow you're going to see them. Perhaps the moon will do her best. "

The girl looked at them nicely, and passed them on one by one to theboy. Presently she made a discovery. 

"Oh, boy!" she cried, "your tears are spoiling all the pictures. "

"I'm sorry, " said the boy huskily; "I can't help it. "

"I know, " the man said quickly; "it doesn't matter a bit. I expectyou've seen these pictures before. "

"I know them all, " said the boy, "but I have never seen them. "

The man frowned. 

"It's the devil, " he said to himself, "when boys speak English. " Heturned suddenly to the girl, who was puzzling over the boy's tears. "It's time you went back to bed, " he said; "there won't be anyfairies tonight. It's too cold for them. "

The girl yawned. 

"I shall get into a row when I get back if they've found it out. Idon't care. "

"The moon is fading, " said the boy suddenly; "there are no moreshadows. "

"We will see you through the wood, " the man continued, "and saygood-night. "

He put his pictures back in his knapsack and then walked silentlythrough the murmuring wood. At the edge of the wood the girl stopped. 

"You are a wood-boy, " she said to the boy, "and you mustn't come anyfarther. You can give me a kiss if you like. "

The boy did not move, but stayed regarding her awkwardly. 

"I think you are a very silly boy, " said the girl, with a toss of herhead, and she stalked away proudly into the mist. 

"Why didn't you kiss her?" asked the man. 

"Her lips would burn me, " said the boy. 

The man and the boy walked slowly across the park. 

"Now, boy, " said the man, "since civilisation has gone to bed thetime has come for you to hear your destiny. "

"I am only a poor boy, " the boy replied simply. "I don't think I haveany destiny. "

"Paradox, " said the man, "is meant to conceal the insincerity of theaged, not to express the simplicity of youth. But I wander. You havemade phrases tonight. "

"What are phrases?"

"What are dreams? What are roses? What, in fine, is the moon? Boy, Itake you for a moon-child. You hold her pale flowers in your arms, her white beams have caressed your limbs, you prefer the kisses ofher cool lips to those of that earth-child; all this is very well. But, above all, you have the music of her great silence; above all, you have her tears. When I played to you on my pipe you recognisedthe voice of your mother. When I showed you my pictures you recalledthe tales with which she hushed you to sleep. And so I knew that youwere her son and my little brother. "

"The moon has always been my friend, " said the boy; "but I did notknow that she was my mother. "

"Perhaps your sister knows it; the happy dead are glad to seek herfor a mother; that is why they are so fond of white flowers. "

"We have a mother at home. She works very hard for us. "

"But it is your mother among the clouds who makes your lifebeautiful, and the beauty of your life is the measure of your days. "

While the boy reflected on these things they had reached the gates ofthe park, and they stole past the silent lodge on to the high road. Aman was waiting there in the shadows, and when he saw the boy'scompanion he rushed out and seized him by the arm. 

"So I've got you, " he said; "I don't think I'll let you go again in ahurry. "

The son of the moon gave a queer little laugh. 

"Why, it's Taylor!" he said pleasantly; "but, Taylor, you knowyou're making a great mistake. "

"Very possibly, " said the keeper, with a laugh. 

"You see this boy here, Taylor; I assure you he is much madder than Iam. "

Taylor looked at the boy kindly. 

"Time you were in bed, Tommy, " he said. 

"Taylor, " said the man earnestly, "this boy has made three phrases. If you don't lock him up he will certainly become a poet. He willset your precious world of sanity ablaze with the fire of his mother, the moon. Your palaces will totter, Taylor, and your kingdoms becomeas dust. I have warned you. "

"That's right, sir; and now you must come with me. "

"Boy, " said the man generously, "keep your liberty. By grace ofProvidence, all men in authority are fools. We shall meet again underthe light of the moon. "

With dreamy eyes the boy watched the departure of his companion. Hehad become almost invisible along the road when, miraculously as itseemed, the light of the moon broke through the trees by the waysideand lit up his figure. For a moment it fell upon his head like ahalo, and touched the knapsack of dreams with glory. Then all waslost in the blackness of night. 

As he turned homeward the boy felt a cold wind upon his cheek. It wasthe first breath of dawn. 

The Coffin Merchant

 I

London on a November Sunday inspired Eustace Reynolds with amelancholy too insistent to be ignored and too causeless to beenjoyed. The grey sky overhead between the house-tops, the cold windround every street-corner, the sad faces of the men and women on thepavements, combined to create an atmosphere of ineloquent misery. Eustace was sensitive to impressions, and in spite of ahalf-conscious effort to remain a dispassionate spectator of theworld's melancholy, he felt the chill of the aimless day creepingover his spirit. Why was there no sun, no warmth, no laughter on theearth? What had become of all the children who keep laughter like amask on the faces of disillusioned men? The wind blew downSouthampton Street, and chilled Eustace to a shiver that passed awayin a shudder of disgust at the sombre colour of life. A windy Sundayin London before the lamps are lit, tempts a man to believe in thenobility of work. 

At the corner by Charing Cross Telegraph Office a man thrust ahandbill under his eyes, but he shook his head impatiently. Theblueness of the fingers that offered him the paper was alonesufficient to make him disinclined to remove his hands from hispockets even for an instant. But, the man would not be dismissed solightly. 

"Excuse me, sir, " he said, following him, "you have not looked tosee what my bills are. "

"Whatever they are I do not want them. "

"That's where you are wrong, sir, " the man said earnestly. "You willnever find life interesting if you do not lie in wait for theunexpected. As a matter of fact, I believe that my bill containsexactly what you do want. "

Eustace looked at the man with quick curiosity. His clothes wereragged, and the visible parts of his flesh were blue with cold, buthis eyes were bright with intelligence and his speech was that of aneducated man. It seemed to Eustace that he was being regarded with akeen expectancy, as though his decision I on the trivial point was ofreal importance. 

"I don't know what you are driving at, " he said, "but if it will giveyou any pleasure I will take one of your bills; though if you arguewith all your clients as you have with me, it must take you a longtime to get rid of them. "

"I only offer them to suitable persons, " the man said, folding up oneof the handbills while he spoke, "and I'm sure you will not regrettaking it, " and he slipped the paper into Eustace's hand and walkedrapidly away. 

Eustace looked after him curiously for a moment, and then opened thepaper in his hand. When his eyes comprehended its significance, hegave a low whistle of astonishment. "You will soon be warning acoffin!" it read. "At 606, Gray's Inn Road, your order will beattended to with civility and despatch. Call and see us!!"

Eustace swung round quickly to look for the man, but he was out ofsight. The wind was growing colder, and the lamps were beginning toshine out in the greying streets. Eustace crumpled the paper intohis overcoat pocket, and turned homewards. 

"How silly!" he said to himself, in conscious amusement. The sound ofhis footsteps on the pavement rang like an echo to his laugh. 

 II

Eustace was impressionable but not temperamentally morbid, and he wastroubled a little by the fact that the gruesomely bizarre handbillcontinued to recur to his mind. The thing was so manifestly absurd, he told himself with conviction, that it was not worth a secondthought, but this did not prevent him from thinking of it again andagain. What manner of undertaker could hope to obtain business bygiving away foolish handbills in the street? Really, the whole thinghad the air of a brainless practical joke, yet his intellectualfairness forced him to admit that as far as the man who had given himthe bill was concerned, brainlessness was out of the question, andjoking improbable. There had been depths in those little brighteyes which his glance had not been able to sound, and the man'smanner in making him accept the handbill had given the wholetransaction a kind of ludicrous significance. 

"You will soon be wanting a coffin----!"

Eustace found himself turning the words over and over in his mind. If he had had any near relations he might have construed the thingas an elaborate threat, but he was practically alone in the world, and it seemed to him that he was not likely to want a coffin foranyone but himself. 

"Oh damn the thing!" he said impatiently, as he opened the door ofhis flat, "it isn't worth worrying about. I mustn't let the whim ofsome mad tradesman get on my nerves. I've got no one to bury, anyhow. "

Nevertheless the thing lingered with him all the evening, and whenhis neighbour the doctor came in for a chat at ten o'clock, Eustacewas glad to show him the strange handbill. The doctor, who hadexperienced the queer magics that are practised to this day on theWest Coast of Africa, and who, therefore, had no nerves, wasdelighted with so striking an example of British commercialenterprise. 

"Though, mind you, " he added gravely, smoothing the crumpled paper onhis knee, "this sort of thing might do a lot of harm if it fell intothe hands of a nervous subject. I should be inclined to punch thehead of the ass who perpetrated it. Have you turned that address upin the Post Office Directory?"

Eustace shook his head, and rose and fetched the fat red book whichmakes London an English city. Together they found the Gray's InnRoad, and ran their eyes down to No. 606. 

"'Harding, G. J. , Coffin Merchant and Undertaker. ' Not muchinformation there, " muttered the doctor. 

"Coffin merchant's a bit unusual, isn't it?" queried Eustace. 

"I suppose he manufactures coffins wholesale for the trade. Still, Ididn't know they called themselves that. Anyhow, it seems, as thoughthat handbill is a genuine piece of downright foolishness. The idiotought to be stopped advertising in that way. "

"I'll go and see him myself tomorrow, " said Eustace bluntly. 

"Well, he's given you an invitation, " said the doctor, "so it's onlypolite of you to go. I'll drop in here in the evening to hear whathe's like. I expect that you'll find him as mad as a hatter. "

"Something like that, " said Eustace, "or he wouldn't give handbillsto people like me. I have no one to bury except myself. "

"No, " said the doctor in the hall, "I suppose you haven't. Don't lethim measure you for a coffin, Reynolds!"

Eustace laughed. 

"We never know, " he said sententiously. 

 III

Next day was one of those gorgeous blue days of which November givesbut few, and Eustace was glad to run out to Wimbledon for a game ofgolf, or rather for two. It was therefore dusk before he made his wayto the Gray's Inn Road in search of the unexpected. His attitudetowards his errand despite the doctor's laughter and the prosaicentry in the directory, was a little confused. He could not helpreflecting that after all the doctor had not seen the man with thelittle wise eyes, nor could he forget that Mr. G. J. Harding'sdescription of himself as a coffin merchant, to say the least of it, approached the unusual. Yet he felt that it would be intolerable tochop the whole business without finding out what it all meant. On thewhole he would have preferred not to have discovered the riddle atall; but having found it, he could not rest without an answer. 

No. 606, Gray's Inn Road, was not like an ordinary undertaker's shop. The window was heavily draped with black cloth, but was otherwiseunadorned. There were no letters from grateful mourners, no littlemodel coffins, no photographs of marble memorials. Even moresurprising was the absence of any name over the shop-door, so thatthe uninformed stranger could not possibly tell what trade wascarried on within, or who was responsible for the management of thebusiness. This uncommercial modesty did not tend to remove Eustace'sdoubts as to the sanity of Mr. G. J. Harding; but he opened theshop-door which started a large bell swinging noisily, and steppedover the threshold. The shop was hardly more expressive inside thanout. A broad counter ran across it, cutting it in two, and in thepartial gloom overhead a naked gas-burner whistled a noisy song. Beyond this the shop contained no furniture whatever, and nostock-in-trade except a few planks leaning against the wall in onecorner. There was a large ink-stand on the counter. Eustace waitedpatiently for a minute or two, and then as no one came he beganstamping on the floor with his foot. This proved efficacious, forsoon he heard the sound of footsteps ascending wooden stairs, thedoor behind the counter opened and a man came into the shop. 

He was dressed quite neatly now, and his hands were no longer bluewith cold, but Eustace knew at once that it was the man who had givenhim the handbill. Nevertheless he looked at Eustace without a sign ofrecognition. 

"What can I do for you, sir?" he asked pleasantly. 

Eustace laid the handbill down on the counter. 

"I want to know about this, " he said. "It strikes me as being inpretty bad taste, and if a nervous person got hold of it, it might bedangerous. "

"You think so, sir? Yet our representative, " he lingeredaffectionately on the words, "our representative told you, I believe, that the handbill was only distributed to suitable cases. "

"That's where you are wrong, " said Eustace sharply, "for I have noone to bury. "

"Except yourself, " said the coffin merchant suavely. 

Eustace looked at him keenly. "I don't see----" he began. But thecoffin merchant interrupted him. 

"You must know, sir, " he said, "that this is no ordinary undertaker'sbusiness. We possess information that enables us to defy competitionin our special class of trade. "

"Information!"

"Well, if you prefer it, you may say intuitions. If ourrepresentative handed you that advertisement, it was because he knewyou would need it. "

"Excuse me, " said Eustace, "you appear to be sane, but your words donot convey to me any reasonable significance. You gave me thatfoolish advertisement yourself, and now you say that you did sobecause you knew I would need it. I ask you why?"

The coffin merchant shrugged his shoulders. "Ours is a sentimentaltrade, " he said, "I do not know why dead men want coffins, but theydo. For my part I would wish to be cremated. "

"Dead men?"

"Ah, I was coming to that. You see Mr. ----?"

"Reynolds. "

"Thank you, my name is Harding--G. J. Harding. You see, Mr. Reynolds, our intuitions are of a very special character, and if we say thatyou will need a coffin, it is probable that you will need one. "

"You mean to say that I----"

"Precisely. In twenty-four hours or less, Mr. Reynolds, you will needour services. "

The revelation of the coffin merchant's insanity came to Eustacewith a certain relief. For the first time in the interview he had asense of the dark empty shop and the whistling gas-jet over hishead. 

"Why, it sounds like a threat, Mr. Harding!" he said gaily. 

The coffin merchant looked at him oddly, and produced a printed formfrom his pocket. "If you would fill this up, " he said. 

Eustace picked it up off the counter and laughed aloud. It was anorder for a hundred-guinea funeral. 

"I don't know what your game is, " he said, "but this has gone on longenough. "

"Perhaps it has, Mr. Reynolds, " said the coffin merchant, and heleant across the counter and looked Eustace straight in the face. 

For a moment Eustace was amused; then he was suddenly afraid. "Ithink it's time I----" he began slowly, and then he was silent, hiswhole will intent on fighting the eyes of the coffin merchant. Thesong of the gas-jet waned to a point in his ears, and then rosesteadily till it was like the beating of the world's heart. The eyesof the coffin merchant grew larger and larger, till they blended inone great circle of fire. Then Eustace picked a pen off the counterand filled in the form. 

"Thank you very much, Mr. Reynolds, " said the coffin merchant, shaking hands with him politely. "I can promise you every civilityand despatch. Good-day, sir. "

Outside on the pavement Eustace stood for a while trying to recallexactly what had happened. There was a slight scratch on his hand, and when he automatically touched it with his lips, it made themburn. The lit lamps in the Gray's Inn Road seemed to him a littleunsteady, and the passers-by showed a disposition to blunder intohim. 

"Queer business, " he said to himself dimly; "I'd better have a cab. "

He reached home in a dream. 

It was nearly ten o'clock before the doctor remembered his promise, and went upstairs to Eustace's flat. The outer door was half-open sothat he thought he was expected, and he switched on the light in thelittle hall, and shut the door behind him with the simplicity ofhabit. But when he swung round from the door he gave a cry ofastonishment. Eustace was lying asleep in a chair before him withhis face flushed and drooping on his shoulder, and his breathhissing noisily through his parted lips. The doctor looked at himquizzically, "If I did not know you, my young friend, " he remarked, "I should say that you were as drunk as a lord. "

And he went up to Eustace and shook him by the shoulder; but Eustacedid not wake. 

"Queer!" the doctor muttered, sniffing at Eustace's lips; "he hasn'tbeen drinking. "

The Soul Of A Policeman

 I

Outside, above the uneasy din of the traffic, the sky was gloriouswith the far peace of a fine summer evening. Through the upper paneof the station window Police-constable Bennett, who felt that hissenses at the moment were abnormally keen, recognised with a sinkingheart such reds and yellows as bedecked the best patchwork quilt athome. By contrast the lights of the superintendent's office weresubdued, so that within the walls of the police-station sounds seemedof greater importance. Somewhere a drunkard, deprived of his boots, was drumming his criticism of authority on the walls of his cell. From the next room, where the men off duty were amusing themselves, there came a steady clicking of billiard-balls and dominoes, brokennow and again by gruff bursts of laughter. And at his very elbow thesuperintendent was speaking in that suave voice that reminded Bennettof grey velvet. 

"You see, Bennett, how matters stand. I have nothing at all againstyour conduct. You are steady and punctual, and I have no doubt thatyou are trying to do your duty. But it's very unfortunate that as faras results go you have nothing to show for your efforts. During thelast three weeks you have not brought in a charge of any description, and during the same period I find that your colleagues on the beathave been exceptionally busy. I repeat that I do not accuse you ofneglecting your duty, but these things tell with the magistrates andconvey a general suggestion of slackness. "

Bennett looked down at his brightly polished boots. His fingers weresandy and there was soft felt beneath his feet. 

"I have been afraid of this for some time, sir, " he said, "very muchafraid. "

The superintendent looked at him questioningly. 

"You have nothing to say?" he said. 

"I have always tried to do my duty, sir. "

"I know, I know. But you must see that a certain number of charges, if not of convictions, is the mark of a smart officer. "

"Surely you would not have me arrest innocent persons?"

"That is a most improper observation, " said the superintendentseverely. "I will say no more to you now. But I hope you will takewhat I have said as a warning. You must bustle along, Bennett, bustlealong. "

Outside in the street, Police-constable Bennett was free to reflecton his unpleasant interview. The superintendent was ambitious andtherefore pompous; he, himself, was unambitious and therefore modest. Left to himself he might have been content to triumph in thereflection that he had failed to say a number of foolish things, butthe welfare of his wife and children bound him, tiresomely enough fora dreamer, tightly to the practical. It was clear that if he did notforthwith produce signs of his efficiency as a promoter of the peacethat welfare would be imperilled. Yet he did not condemn the chancethat had made him a policeman or even the mischance that brought noguilty persons to his hands. Rather he looked with a gentle curiosityinto the faces of the people who passed him, and wondered why hecould not detect traces of the generally assumed wickedness of theneighbourhood. These unkempt men and women were thieves and evenmurderers, it appeared; but to him they shone as happy youths andmaidens, joyous victims of love's tyranny. 

As he drew near the street in which he lived this sense of universallove quickened in his blood and stirred him strangely. It did notescape his eyes that to the general his uniform was an unfriendlything. Men and women paused in their animated chattering till he hadpassed, and even the children faltered in their games to watch himwith doubtful eyes. And yet his heart was warm for them; he knew thathe wished them well. 

Nevertheless, when he saw his house shining in a row of similarhouses, he realised that their attitude was wiser than his. If he wasto be a success as a breadwinner he must wage a sterner war againstthese happy, lovable people. It was easy, he had been long enough inthe force to know how easy, to get cases. An intolerant manner, alittle provocative harshness, and the thing was done. Yet with allhis heart he admired the poor for their resentful independence ofspirit. To him this had always been the supreme quality of theEnglish character; how could he make use of it to fill English gaols?

He opened the door of his house, with a sigh on his lips. There cameforth the merry shouting of his children. 

 II

Above the telephone wires the stars dipped at anchor in the cloudlesssky. Down below, in one of the dark, empty streets, Police-constableBennett turned the handles of doors and tested the fastenings ofwindows, with a complete scepticism as to the value of his labours. Gradually, he was coming to see that he was not one of the few whoare born to rule--to control--their simple neighbours, ambitious onlyfor breath. Where, if he had possessed this mission, he would havebeen eager to punish, he now felt no more than a sympathy thatcharged him with some responsibility for the sins of others. Heshared the uneasy conviction of the multitude that human justice, asinterpreted by the inspired minority, is more than a little unjust. The very unpopularity with which his uniform endowed him seemed tohim to express a severe criticism of the system of which he was anunwilling supporter. He wished these people to regard him as a kindof official friend, to advise and settle differences; yet, shrewderthan he, they considered him as an enemy, who lived on their mistakesand the collapse of their social relationships. 

There remained his duty to his wife and children, and this renderedthe problem infinitely perplexing. 

Why should he punish others because of his love for his children; or, again, why should his children suffer for his scruples? Yet it wasclear that, unless fortune permitted him to accomplish some notableyet honourable arrest, he would either have to cheat and tyrannisewith his colleagues or leave the force. And what employment isavailable for a discharged policeman?

As he went systematically from house to house the consideration ofthese things marred the normal progress of his dreams. Conscious ashe was of the stars and the great widths of heaven that made theworld so small, he nevertheless felt that his love for his family andthe wider love that determined his honour were somehow intimatelyconnected with this greatness of the universe rather than with theworld of little streets and little motives, and so were not lightlyto be put aside. Yet, how can one measure one love against anotherwhen all are true?

When the door of Gurneys', the moneylenders, opened to his touch, and drew him abruptly from his speculations, his first emotion was aquick irritation that chance should interfere with his thoughts. Butwhen his lantern showed him that the lock had been tampered with, his annoyance changed to a thrill of hopeful excitement. What ifthis were the way out? What if fate had granted him compromise, theopportunity of pitting his official virtue against official crime, those shadowy forces in the existence of which he did not believe, but which lay on his life like clouds?

He was not a physical coward, and it seemed quite simple to him tocreep quietly through the open door into the silent office withoutwaiting for possible reinforcements. He knew that the safe, whichwould be the, natural goal of the presumed burglars, was in Mr. Gurney's private office beyond, and while he stood listening intentlyhe seemed to hear dim sounds coming from the direction of that room. For a moment he paused, frowning slightly as a man does when he istrying to catalogue an impression. When he achieved perception, itcame oddly mingled with recollections of the little tragedies of hischildren at home. For some one was crying like a child in the littleroom where Mr. Gurney brow-beat recalcitrant borrowers. Dangerousburglars do not weep, and Bennett hesitated no longer, but steppedpast the open flaps of the counter, and threw open the door of theinner office. 

The electric light had been switched on, and at the table there sat aslight young man with his face buried in his hands, crying bitterly. Behind him the safe stood open and empty, and the grate was filledwith smouldering embers of burnt paper. Bennett went up to theyoung man and placed his hand on his shoulder. But the young man wepton and did not move. 

Try as he might Bennett could not help relaxing the grip of outragedlaw, and patting the young man's shoulder soothingly as it rose andfell. He had no fit weapons of roughness and oppression with which tooppose this child-like grief; he could only fight tears with tears. 

"Come, " he said gently, "you must pull yourself together. "

At the sound of his voice the young man gave a great sob and then wassilent, shivering a little. 

"That's better, " said Bennett encouragingly, "much better. "

"I have burnt everything, " the young man said suddenly, "and now theplace is empty. I was nearly sick just now. "

Bennett looked at him sympathetically, as one dreamer may look atanother, who is sad with action dreamed too often for scathelessaccomplishment. "I'm afraid you'll get into serious trouble, " hesaid. 

"I know, " replied the young man, "but that blackguard Gurney--" Hisvoice rose to a shrill scream and choked him for a moment. Thenhe went on quietly "But it's all over now. Finished! Done with!"

"I suppose you owed him money?"

The young man nodded. "He lives on fools like me. But he threatenedto tell my father, and now I've just about ruined him. Pah! Swine!"

"This won't be much better for your father, " said Bennett gravely. 

"No, it's worse; but perhaps it will help some of the others. He kepton threatening and I couldn't wait any longer. Can't you see?"

Over the young man's shoulder the stars becked and nodded to Bennettthrough the blindless window. 

"I see, " he said; "I see. "

"So now you can take me. "

Bennett looked doubtfully at the outstretched wrists. "You are only afool, " he said, "a dreaming fool like me, and they will give youyears for this. I don't see why they should give a man years forbeing a fool. "

The young man looked up, taken with a sudden hope. "You will let mego?" he said, in astonishment. "I know I was an ass just now. Isuppose I was a bit shaken. But you will let me go?"

"I wish to God I had never seen you!" said Bennett simply. "You haveyour father, and I have a wife and three little children. Who shalljudge between us?"

"My father is an old man. "

"And my children are little. You had better go before I make up mymind. "

Without another word the young man crept out of the room, and Bennettfollowed him slowly into the street. This gallant criminal whosecapture would have been honourable, had dwindled to a hystericalfoolish boy; and aided by his own strange impulse this boy had ruinedhim. The burglary had taken place on his beat; there would be aninquiry; it did not need that to secure his expulsion from the force. Once in the street he looked up hopefully to the heavens; but now thestars seemed unspeakably remote, though as he passed along his beathis wife and his three little children were walking by his side. 

 III

Bennett had developed mentally without realising the logical resultof his development until it smote him with calamity. Of his betrayalof trust as a guardian of property he thought nothing; of thepossibility of poverty for his family he thought a great deal--allthe more that his dreamer's mind was little accustomed to grippingthe practical. It was strange, he thought, that his final declarationof war against his position should have been a little lacking indignity. He had not taken the decisive step through any deepcompassion of utter poverty bravely borne. His had been no more thantrivial pity of a young man's folly; and this was a frail thing onwhich to make so great a sacrifice. Yet he regretted nothing. Histask of moral guardian of men and women had become impossible to him, and sooner or later he must have given it up. And there was also hisfamily. "I must come to some decision, " he said to himself firmly. 

And then the great scream fell upon his ears and echoed through hisbrain for ever and ever. It came from the house before which he wasstanding, and he expected the whole street to wake aghast with thehorror of it. But there followed a silence that seemed to emphasisethe ugliness of the sound. Far away an engine screamed as if inmocking imitation; and that was all. Bennett had counted up to ahundred and seventy before the door of the house opened, and a mancame out on to the steps. 

"Oh, constable, " he said coolly, "come inside, will you? I havesomething to show you. "

Bennett mounted the steps doubtfully. 

"There was a scream, " he said. 

The man looked at him quickly. "So you heard it, " he said. "It wasnot pretty. "

"No, it was not, " replied Bennett. 

The man led him down the dim passage into the back sitting-room. Thebody of a man lay on the sofa; it was curled like a dry leaf. 

"That is my brother, " said the man, with a little emphatic nod; "Ihave killed him. He was my enemy. "

Bennett stared dully at the body, without believing it to be reallythere. 

"Dead!" he said mechanically. 

"And anything I say will be used against me in evidence! As if youcould compress my hatred into one little lying notebook. "

"I don't care a damn about your hatred, " said Bennett, with heat. "Anhour ago, perhaps, I might have arrested you; now I only find youuninteresting. "

The man gave a long, low whistle of surprise. 

"A philosopher in uniform, " he said, "God! sir, you have mysympathy. "

"And you have my pity. You have stolen your ideas from cheapmelodrama, and you make tragedy ridiculous. Were I a policeman, Iwould lock you up with pleasure. Were I a man, I should thrash youjoyfully. As it is I can only share your infamy. I too, I suppose, ama murderer. "

"You are in a low, nervous state, " said the man; "and you are doingme some injustice. It is true that I am a poor murderer; but itappears to me that you are a worse policeman. "

"I shall wear the uniform no more from tonight. "

"I think you are wise, and I shall mar my philosophy with no moremurders. If, indeed, I have killed him; for I assure you that beyondadministering the poison to his wretched body I have done nothing. Perhaps he is not dead. Can you hear his heart beating?"

"I can hear the spoons of my children beating on their emptyplatters!"

"Is it like that with you? Poor devil! Oh, poor, poor devil!Philosophers should have no wives, no children, no homes, and nohearts. "

Bennett turned from the man with unspeakable loathing. 

"I hate you and such as you!" he cried weakly. "You justify theexistence of the police. You make me despise myself because I realisethat your crimes are no less mine than yours. I do not ask you todefend the deadness of that thing lying there. I shall stir no fingerto have you hanged, for the thought of suicide repels me, and Icannot separate your blood and mine. We are common children of anoble mother, and for our mother's sake I say farewell. "

And without waiting for the man's answer he passed from the house tothe street. 

 IV

Haggard and with rebellious limbs, Police-constable Bennett staggeredinto the superintendent's office in the early morning. 

"I have paid careful attention to your advice, " he said to thesuperintendent, "and I have passed across the city in search ofcrime. In its place I have found but folly--such folly as you have, such folly as I have myself--the common heritage of our blood. Itseems that in some way I have bound myself to bring criminals tojustice. I have passed across the city, and I have found no manworse than myself. Do what you will with me. "

The superintendent cleared his throat. 

"There have been too many complaints concerning the conduct of thepolice, " he said; "it is time that an example was made. You will becharged with being drunk and disorderly while on duty. "

"I have a wife and three little children, " said Bennett softly--"andthree pretty little children. " And he covered his tired face with hishands. 

The Conjurer

Certainly the audience was restive. In the first place it felt thatit had been defrauded, seeing that Cissie Bradford, whose smilingface adorned the bills outside, had, failed to appear, and secondly, it considered that the deputy for that famous lady was more thaninadequate. To the little man who sweated in the glare of thelimelight and juggled desperately with glass balls in a vain effortto steady his nerve it was apparent that his turn was a failure. Andas he worked he could have cried with disappointment, for his was atrial performance, and a year's engagement in the Hennings' group ofmusic-halls would have rewarded success. Yet his tricks, things thathe had done with the utmost ease a thousand times, had been asuccession of blunders, rather mirth-provoking than mystifying tothe audience. Presently one of the glass balls fell crashing on thestage, and amidst the jeers of the gallery he turned to his wife, who served as his assistant. 

"I've lost my chance, " he said, with a sob; "I can't do it!"

"Never mind, dear, " she whispered. "There's a nice steak and onionsat home for supper. "

"It's no use, " he said despairingly. "I'll try the disappearing trickand then get off. I'm done here. " He turned back to the audience. 

"Ladies and gentlemen, " he said to the mockers in a wavering voice, "I will now present to you the concluding item of my entertainment. Iwill cause this lady to disappear under your very eyes, without theaid of any mechanical contrivance or artificial device. " This was themerest showman's patter, for, as a matter of fact, it was not a verywonderful illusion. But as he led his wife forward to present her tothe audience the conjurer was wondering whether the mishaps that hadruined his chance would meet him even here. If something should gowrong--he felt his wife's hand tremble in his, and he pressed ittightly to reassure her. He must make an effort, an effort of will, and then no mistakes would happen. For a second the lights dancedbefore his eyes, then he pulled himself together. If an earthquakeshould disturb the curtains and show Molly creeping ignominiouslyaway behind he would still meet his fate like a man. He turned roundto conduct his wife to the little alcove from which she shouldvanish. She was not on the stage!

For a minute he did not guess the greatness of the disaster. Then herealised that the theatre was intensely quiet, and that he would haveto explain that the last item of his programme was even more of afiasco than the rest. Owing to a sudden indisposition--his skintingled at the thought of the hooting. His tongue rasped uponcracking lips as he braced himself and bowed to the audience. 

Then came the applause. Again and again it broke out from all overthe house, while the curtain rose and fell, and the conjurer stood onthe stage, mute, uncomprehending. What had happened? At first he hadthought they were mocking him, but it was impossible to misjudge thenature of the applause. Besides, the stage-manager was allowing himcall after call, as if he were a star. When at length the curtainremained down, and the orchestra struck up the opening bars of thenext song, he staggered off into the wings as if he were drunk. Therehe met Mr. James Hennings himself. 

"You'll do, " said the great man; "that last trick was neat. You oughtto polish up the others though. I suppose you don't want to tell mehow you did it? Well, well, come in the morning and we'll fix up acontract. "

And so, without having said a word, the conjurer found himselfhustled off by the Vaudeville Napoleon. Mr. Hennings had somethingmore to say to his manager. 

"Bit rum, " he said. "Did you see it?"

"Queerest thing we've struck. "

"How was it done do you think?"

"Can't imagine. There one minute on his arm, gone the next, no trap, or curtain, or anything. "

"Money in it, eh?"

"Biggest hit of the century, I should think. "

"I'll go and fix up a contract and get him to sign it tonight. Geton with it. " And Mr. James Hennings fled to his office. 

Meanwhile the conjurer was wandering in the wings with the droopingheart of a lost child. What had happened? Why was he a success, andwhy did people stare so oddly, and what had become of his wife? Whenhe asked them the stage hands laughed, and said they had not seenher. Why should they laugh? He wanted her to explain things, and heartheir good luck. But she was not in her dressing-room, she was notanywhere. For a moment he felt like crying. 

Then, for the second time that night, he pulled himself together. After all, there was no reason to be upset. He ought to feel verypleased about the contract, however it had happened. It seemed thathis wife had left the stage in some queer way without being seen. Probably to increase the mystery she had gone straight home in herstage dress, and had succeeded in dodging the stage-door keeper. Itwas all very strange; but, of course, there must be some simpleexplanation like that. He would take a cab home and find her therealready. There was a steak and onions for supper. 

As he drove along in the cab he became convinced that this theory wasright. Molly had always been clever, and this time she had certainlysucceeded in surprising everybody. At the door of his house he gavethe cabman a shilling for himself with a light heart. He could affordit now. He ran up the steps cheerfully and opened the door. Thepassage was quite dark, and he wondered why his wife hadn't lit thegas. 

"Molly!" he cried, "Molly!"

The small, weary-eyed servant came out of the kitchen on a savourywind of onions. 

"Hasn't missus come home with you, sir?" she said. 

The conjurer thrust his hand against the wall to steady himself, andthe pattern of the wall-paper seemed to burn his finger-tips. 

"Not here!" he gasped at the frightened girl. "Then where is she?Where is she?"

"I don't know, sir, " she began stuttering; but the conjurer turnedquickly and ran out of the house. Of course, his wife must be at thetheatre. It was absurd ever to have supposed that she could leave thetheatre in her stage dress unnoticed; and now she was probablyworrying because he had not waited for her. How foolish he had been. 

It was a quarter of an hour before he found a cab, and the theatrewas dark and empty when he got back to it. He knocked at the stagedoor, and the night watchman opened it. 

"My wife?" he cried. "There's no one here now, sir, " the man answeredrespectfully, for he knew that a new star had risen that night. 

The conjurer leant against the doorpost faintly. 

"Take me up to the dressing-rooms, " he said. "I want to see whethershe has been, there while I was away. "

The watchman led the way along the dark passages. "I shouldn't worryif I were you, sir, " he said. "She can't have gone far. " He did notknow anything about it, but he wanted to be sympathetic. 

"God knows, " the conjurer muttered, "I can't understand this at all. "

In the dressing-room Molly's clothes still lay neatly folded as shehad left them when they went on the stage that night, and when he sawthem his last hope left the conjurer, and a strange thought came intohis mind. 

"I should like to go down on the stage, " he said, "and see if thereis anything to tell me of her. "

The night watchman looked at the conjurer as if he thought he wasmad, but he followed him down to the stage in silence. When he wasthere the conjurer leaned forward suddenly, and his face was filledwith a wistful eagerness. 

"Molly!" he called, "Molly!"

But the empty theatre gave him nothing but echoes in reply. 

The Poet's Allegory

 I

The boy came into the town at six o'clock in the morning, but thebaker at the corner of the first street was up, as is the way ofbakers, and when he saw the boy passing, he hailed him with a jollyshout. 

"Hullo, boy! What are you after?"

"I'm going about my business, " the boy said pertly. 

"And what might that be, young fellow?"

"I might be a good tinker, and worship god Pan, or I might grindscissors as sharp as the noses of bakers. But, as a matter of fact, I'm a piper, not a rat-catcher, you understand, but just a simplesinger of sad songs, and a mad singer of merry ones. "

"Oh, " said the baker dully, for he had hoped the boy was in search ofwork. "Then I suppose you have a message. "

"I sing songs, " the boy said emphatically. "I don't run errandsfor anyone save it be for the fairies. "

"Well, then, you have come to tell us that we are bad, that our livesare corrupt and our homes sordid. Nowadays there's money in that ifyou can do it well. "

"Your wit gets up too early in the morning for me, baker, " said theboy. "I tell you I sing songs. "

"Aye, I know, but there's something in them, I hope. Perhaps youbring news. They're not so popular as the other sort, but still, aslong as it's bad news--"

"Is it the flour that has changed his brains to dough, or the heat ofthe oven that has made them like dead grass?"

"But you must have some news----?"

"News! It's a fine morning of summer, and I saw a kingfisher acrossthe watermeadows coming along. Oh, and there's a cuckoo back in thefir plantation, singing with a May voice. It must have been asleepall these months. "

"But, my dear boy, these things happen every day. Are there nobattles or earthquakes or famines in the world? Has no manmurdered his wife or robbed his neighbour? Is no one oppressed bytyrants or lied to by their officers. "

The boy shrugged his shoulders. 

"I hope not, " he said. "But if it were so, and I knew, I should nottell you. I don't want to make you unhappy. "

"But of what use are you then, if it be not to rouse in us thediscontent that is alone divine? Would you have me go fat and happy, listening to your babble of kingfishers and cuckoos, while mybrothers and sisters in the world are starving?"

The boy was silent for a moment. 

"I give my songs to the poor for nothing, " he said slowly. "Certainlythey are not much use to empty bellies, but they are all I have togive. And I take it, since you speak so feelingly, that you, too, doyour best. And these others, these people who must be reminded hourlyto throw their crusts out of window for the poor--would you have mesing to them? They must be told that life is evil, and I find itgood; that men and women are wretched, and I find them happy; thatfood and cleanliness, order and knowledge are the essence ofcontent while I only ask for love. Would you have me lie to cheatmean folk out of their scraps?"

The baker scratched his head in astonishment. 

"Certainly you are very mad, " he said. "But you won't get much moneyin this town with that sort of talk. You had better come in and havebreakfast with me. "

"But why do you ask me?" said the boy, in surprise. 

"Well, you have a decent, honest sort of face, although your tongueis disordered. "

"I had rather it had been because you liked my songs, " said the boy, and he went in to breakfast with the baker. 

 II

Over his breakfast the boy talked wisely on art, as is the wont ofyoung singers, and afterwards he went on his way down the street. 

"It's a great pity, " said the baker; "he seems a decent young chap. "

"He has nice eyes, " said the baker's wife. 

As the boy passed down the street he frowned a little. 

"What is the matter with them?" he wondered. "They're pleasant peopleenough, and yet they did not want to hear my songs. "

Presently he came to the tailor's shop, and as the tailor had sharpereyes than the baker, he saw the pipe in the boy's pocket. 

"Hullo, piper!" he called. "My legs are stiff. Come and sing us asong!"

The boy looked up and saw the tailor sitting cross-legged in the openwindow of his shop. 

"What sort of song would you like?" he asked. 

"Oh! the latest, " replied the tailor. "We don't want any old songshere. " So the boy sung his new song of the kingfisher in thewater-meadow and the cuckoo who had overslept itself. 

"And what do you call that?" asked the tailor angrily, when the boyhad finished. 

"It's my new song, but I don't think it's one of my best. " But in hisheart the boy believed it was, because he had only just made it. 

"I should hope it's your worst, " the tailor said rudely. "What sortof stuff is that to make a man happy?"

"To make a man happy!" echoed the boy, his heart sinking within him. 

"If you have no news to give me, why should I pay for your songs! Iwant to hear about my neighbours, about their lives, and their wivesand their sins. There's the fat baker up the street--they say hecheats the poor with light bread. Make me a song of that, and I'llgive you some breakfast. Or there's the magistrate at the top of thehill who made the girl drown herself last week. That's a poeticsubject. "

"What's all this!" said the boy disdainfully. "Can't you make dirtenough for yourself!"

"You with your stuff about birds, " shouted the tailor; "you're a rankimpostor! That's what you are!"

"They say that you are the ninth part of a man, but I find that theyhave grossly exaggerated, " cried the boy, in retort; but he hada heavy heart as he made off along the street. 

By noon he had interviewed the butcher, the cobbler, the milkman, andthe maker of candlesticks, but they treated him no better than thetailor had done, and as he was feeling tired he went and sat downunder a tree. 

"I begin to think that the baker is the best of the lot of them, " hesaid to himself ruefully, as he rolled his empty wallet between hisfingers. 

Then, as the folly of singers provides them in some measure with aphilosophy, he fell asleep. 

 III

When he woke it was late in the afternoon, and the children, freshfrom school, had come out to play in the dusk. Far and near, acrossthe town-square, the boy could hear their merry voices, but he feltsad, for his stomach had forgotten the baker's breakfast, and he didnot see where he was likely to get any supper. So he pulled out hispipe, and made a mournful song to himself of the dancing gnatsand the bitter odour of the bonfires in the townsfolk's gardens. Andthe children drew near to hear him sing, for they thought his songwas pretty, until their fathers drove them home, saying, "That stuffhas no educational value. "

"Why haven't you a message?" they asked the boy. 

"I come to tell you that the grass is green beneath your feet andthat the sky is blue over your heads. "

"Oh I but we know all that, " they answered. 

"Do you! Do you!" screamed the boy. "Do you think you could stopover your absurd labours if you knew how blue the sky is? You wouldbe out singing on the hills with me!"

"Then who would do our work?" they said, mocking him. 

"Then who would want it done?" he retorted; but it's ill arguing onan empty stomach. 

But when they had tired of telling him what a fool he was, and goneaway, the tailor's little daughter crept out of the shadows andpatted him on the shoulder. 

"I say, boy!" she whispered. "I've brought you some supper. Fatherdoesn't know. " The boy blessed her and ate his supper while shewatched him like his mother and when he had done she kissed him onthe lips. 

"There, boy!" she said. 

"You have nice golden hair, " the boy said. 

"See! it shines in the dusk. It strikes me it's the only gold I shallget in this town. "

"Still it's nice, don't you think?" the girl whispered in his ear. She had her arms round his neck. 

"I love it, " the boy said joyfully; "and you like my songs, don'tyou?"

"Oh, yes, I like them very much, but I like you better. "

The boy put her off roughly. 

"You're as bad as the rest of them, " he said indignantly. "I tell youmy songs are everything, I am nothing. "

"But it was you who ate my supper, boy, " said the girl. 

The boy kissed her remorsefully. "But I wish you had liked me for mysongs, " he sighed. "You are better than any silly old songs!"

"As bad as the rest of them, " the boy said lazily, "but somehowpleasant. "

The shadows flocked to their evening meeting in the square, andoverhead the stars shone out in a sky that was certainly exceedinglyblue. 

 IV

Next morning they arrested the boy as a rogue and a vagabond, and inthe afternoon they brought him before the magistrate. 

"And what have you to say for yourself!" said the magistrate to theboy, after the second policeman, like a faithful echo, had finishedreading his notes. 

"Well, " said the boy, "I may be a rogue and a vagabond. Indeed, Ithink that I probably am; but I would claim the license that hasalways been allowed to singers. "

"Oh!" said the magistrate. "So you are one of those, are you! Andwhat is your message!"

"I think if I could sing you a song or two I could explain myselfbetter, " said the boy. 

"Well, " replied the magistrate doubtfully, "you can try if you like, but I warn you that I wrote songs myself when I was a boy, so that Iknow something about it. "

"Oh, I'm glad of that, " said the boy, and he sang his famous song ofthe grass that is so green, and when he had finished the magistratefrowned. 

"I knew that before, " he said. 

So then the boy sang his wonderful song of the sky that is so blue. And when he had finished the magistrate scowled. "And what are we tolearn from that!" he said. 

So then the boy lost his temper and sang some naughty doggerel hehad made up in his cell that morning. He abused the town andtownsmen, but especially the townsmen. He damned their morals, theircustoms, and their institutions. He said that they had ugly faces, raucous voices, and that their bodies were unclean. He said theywere thieves and liars and murderers, that they had no ear for musicand no sense of humour. Oh, he was bitter!

"Good God!" said the magistrate, "that's what I call real improvingpoetry. Why didn't you sing that first? There might have been amiscarriage of justice. "

Then the baker, the tailor, the butcher, the cobbler, the milkman, and the maker of candlesticks rose in court and said--

"Ah, but we all knew there was something in him. "

So the magistrate gave the boy a certificate that showed that he wasa real singer, and the tradesmen gave him a purse of gold, but thetailor's little daughter gave him one of her golden ringlets. "Youwon't forget, boy, will you?" she said. 

"Oh, no, " said the boy; "but I wish you had liked my songs. "

Presently, when he had come a little way out of the town, he put hishand in his wallet and drew out the magistrate's certificate and toreit in two; and then he took out the gold pieces and threw them intothe ditch, and they were not half as bright as the buttercups. Butwhen he came to the ringlet he smiled at it and put it back. 

"Yet she was as bad as the rest of them, " he thought with a sigh. 

And he went across the world with his songs. 

And Who Shall Say----?

It was a dull November day, and the windows were heavilycurtained, so that the room was very dark. In front of the fire was alarge arm-chair, which shut whatever light there might be from thetwo children, a boy of eleven and a girl about two years younger, whosat on the floor at the back of the room. The boy was the betterlooking, but the girl had the better face. They were both gazing atthe arm-chair with the utmost excitement. 

"It's all right. He's asleep, " said the boy. 

"Oh, do be careful! you'll wake him, " whispered the girl. 

"Are you afraid?"

"No, why should I be afraid of my father, stupid?"

"I tell you he's not father any more. He's a murderer, " the boy saidhotly. "He told me, I tell you. He said, `I have killed yourmother, Ray, ' and I went and looked, and mother was all red. I simplyshouted, and she wouldn't answer. That means she's dead. His hand wasall red, too. "

"Was it paint?"

"No, of course it wasn't paint. It was blood. And then he came downhere and went to sleep. "

"Poor father, so tired. "

"He's not poor father, he's not father at all; he's a murderer, andit is very wicked of you to call him father, " said the boy. 

"Father, " muttered the girl rebelliously. 

"You know the sixth commandment says `Thou shalt do no murder, ' andhe has done murder; so he'll go to hell. And you'll go to hell too ifyou call him father. It's all in the Bible. "

The boy ended vaguely, but the little girl was quite overcome by thethought of her badness. 

"Oh, I am wicked!" she cried. "And I do so want to go to heaven. "

She had a stout and materialistic belief in it as a place of sheetedangels and harps, where it was easy to be good. 

"You must do as I tell you, then, " he said. "Because I know. I'velearnt all about it at school. "

"And you never told me, " said she reproachfully. 

"Ah, there's lots of things I know, " he replied, nodding his head. 

"What must we do?" said the girl meekly. "Shall I go and askmother?"

The boy was sick at her obstinacy. 

"Mother's dead, I tell you; that means she can't hear anything. It'sno use talking to her; but I know. You must stop here, and if fatherwakes you run out of the house and call `Police!' and I will go nowand tell a policeman now. "

"And what happens then?" she asked, with round eyes at her brother'swisdom. 

"Oh, they come and take him away to prison. And then they put a roperound his neck and hang him like Haman, and he goes to hell. "

"Wha-at! Do they kill him?"

"Because he's a murderer. They always do. "

"Oh, don't let's tell them! Don't let's tell them!" shescreamed. 

"Shut up!" said the boy, "or he'll wake up. We must tell them, or wego to hell--both of us. "

But his sister did not collapse at this awful threat, as he expected, though the tears were rolling down her face. "Don't let's tell them, "she sobbed. 

"You're a horrid girl, and you'll go to hell, " said the boy, indisgust. But the silence was only broken by her sobbing. "I tell youhe killed mother dead. You didn't cry a bit for mother; I did. "

"Oh, let's ask mother! Let's ask mother! I know she won't want fatherto go to hell. Let's ask mother!"

"Mother's dead, and can't hear, you stupid, " said the boy. "I keep ontelling you. Come up and look. "

They were both a little awed in mother's room. It was so quiet, andmother looked so funny. And first the girl shouted, and then the boy, and then they shouted both together, but nothing happened. The echoesmade them frightened. 

"Perhaps she's asleep, " the girl said; so her brother pinched one ofmother's hands--the white one, not the red one--but nothinghappened, so mother was dead. 

"Has she gone to hell?" whispered the girl. 

"No! she's gone to heaven, because she's good. Only wicked people goto hell. And now I must go and tell the policeman. Don't you tellfather where I've gone if he wakes up, or he'll run away before thepoliceman comes. "

"Why?"

"So as not to go to hell, " said the boy, with certainty; and theywent downstairs together, the little mind of the girl being muchperturbed because she was so wicked. What would mother say tomorrowif she had done wrong?

The boy put on his sailor hat in the hall. "You must go in there andwatch, " he said, nodding in the direction of the sitting-room. "Ishall run all the way. "

The door banged, and she heard his steps down the path, and theneverything was quiet. 

She tiptoed into the room, and sat down on the floor, and looked atthe back of the chair in utter distress. She could see her father'selbow projecting on one side, but nothing more. For an instantshe hoped that he wasn't there--hoped that he had gone--but then, terrified, she knew that this was a piece of extreme wickedness. 

So she lay on the rough carpet, sobbing hopelessly, and seeing realand vicious devils of her brother's imagining in all the corners ofthe room. 

Presently, in her misery, she remembered a packet of acid-drops thatlay in her pocket, and drew them forth in a sticky mass, which partedfrom its paper with regret. So she choked and sucked her sweets atthe same time, and found them salt and tasteless. 

Ray was gone a long time, and she was a wicked girl who would go tohell if she didn't do what he told her. Those were her prevailingideas. 

And presently there came a third. Ray had said that if her fatherwoke up he would run away, and not go to hell at all. Now if she wokehim up--. 

She knew this was dreadfully naughty; but her mind clung to the ideaobstinately. You see, father had always been so fond of mother, andhe would not like to be in a different place. Mother wouldn'tlike it either. She was always so sorry when father did not come homeor anything. And hell is a dreadful place, full of things. She halfconvinced herself, and started up, but then there came an awfulthought. 

If she did this she would go to hell for ever and ever, and all theothers would be in heaven. 

She hung there in suspense, sucking her sweet and puzzling it overwith knit brows. 

How can one be good?

She swung round and looked in the dark corner by the piano; but theDevil was not there. 

And then she ran across the room to her father, and shaking his arm, shouted, tremulously--

"Wake up, father! Wake up! The police are coming!"

And when the police came ten minutes later, accompanied by a veryproud and virtuous little boy, they heard a small shrill voicecrying, despairingly--

"The police, father! The police!"

But father would not wake. 

The Biography Of A Superman

 "O limèd soul that struggling to be free Art more engaged!"

Charles Stephen Dale, the subject of my study, was a dramatistand, indeed, something of a celebrity in the early years of thetwentieth century. That he should be already completely forgotten isby no means astonishing in an age that elects its great men with acharming indecision of touch. The general prejudice against thegranting of freeholds has spread to the desired lands of fame; andwhere our profligate ancestors were willing to call a man great inperpetuity, we, with more shrewdness, prefer to name him a genius forseven years. We know that before that period may have expired fatewill have granted us a sea-serpent with yet more coils, with ayet more bewildering arrangement of marine and sunset tints, and theconclusion of previous leases will enable us to grant him undisputedpossession of Parnassus. If our ancestors were more generous theywere certainly less discriminate; and it cannot be doubted that manyof them went to their graves under the impression that it is possiblefor there to be more than one great man at a time! We have alteredall that. 

For two years Dale was a great man, or rather the great man, and itis probable that if he had not died he would have held his positionfor a longer period. When his death was announced, although thenotices of his life and work were of a flattering length, theleaderwriters were not unnaturally aggrieved that he should haveresigned his post before the popular interest in his personality wasexhausted. The Censor might do his best by prohibiting theperformance of all the plays that the dead man had left behind him;but, as the author neglected to express his views in their columns, and the common sense of their readers forbade the publication ofinterviews with him, the journals could draw but a poorsatisfaction from condemning or upholding the official action. Dale'sregrettable absence reduced what might have been an agreeable clashof personalities to an arid discussion on art. The consequence wasobvious. The end of the week saw the elevation of James Macintosh, the great Scotch comedian, to the vacant post, and Dale wascompletely forgotten. That this oblivion is merited in terms of hiswork I am not prepared to admit; that it is merited in terms of hispersonality I indignantly wish to deny. Whatever Dale may have beenas an artist, he was, perhaps in spite of himself, a man, and a man, moreover, possessed of many striking and unusual traits of character. It is to the man Dale that I offer this tribute. 

Sprung from an old Yorkshire family, Charles Stephen Dale was yetsufficient of a Cockney to justify both his friends and his enemiesin crediting him with the Celtic temperament. Nevertheless, he wasessentially a modern, insomuch that his contempt for the writings ofdead men surpassed his dislike of living authors. To these twocentral influences we may trace most of the peculiarities thatrendered him notorious and ultimately great. Thus, while his Celticæstheticism permitted him to eat nothing but raw meat, because hemistrusted alike "the reeking products of the manure-heap and thebarbaric fingers of cooks, " it was surely his modernity that made himan agnostic, because bishops sat in the House of Lords. Smaller menmight dislike vegetables and bishops without allowing it to affecttheir conduct; but Dale was careful to observe that every slightestconviction should have its place in the formation of his character. Conversely, he was nothing without a reason. 

These may seem small things to which to trace the motive forces of aman's life; but if we add to them a third, found where the truthabout a man not infrequently lies, in the rag-bag of his enemies, ourmaterials will be nearly complete. "Dale hates hisfellow-human- beings, " wrote some anonymous scribbler, and, evenexpressed thus baldly, the statement is not wholly false. But hehated them because of their imperfections, and it would be truer tosay that his love of humanity amounted to a positive hatred ofindividuals, and, _pace_ the critics, the love was no less sincerethan the hatred. He had drawn from the mental confusion of the darkerGerman philosophers an image of the perfect man--an image differingonly in inessentials from the idol worshipped by the Imperialists as"efficiency. " He did not find--it was hardly likely that he wouldfind--that his contemporaries fulfilled this perfect conception, andhe therefore felt it necessary to condemn them for the possession ofthose weaknesses, or as some would prefer to say, qualities, of whichthe sum is human nature. 

I now approach a quality, or rather the lack of a quality, that is initself of so debatable a character, that were it not of the utmostimportance in considering the life of Charles Stephen Dale I shouldprefer not to mention it. I refer to his complete lack of a sense ofhumour, the consciousness of which deficiency went so far to detractfrom his importance as an artist and a man. The difficulty which Imentioned above lies in the fact that, while every one has a clearconception of what they mean by the phrase, no one has yetsucceeded in defining it satisfactorily. Here I would venture tosuggest that it is a kind of magnificent sense of proportion, asense that relates the infinite greatness of the universe to thefinite smallness of man, and draws the inevitable conclusion as tothe importance of our joys and sorrows and labours. I am aware thatthis definition errs on the side of vagueness; but possibly it may befound to include the truth. Obviously, the natures of those whopossess this sense will tend to be static rather than dynamic, and itis therefore against the limits imposed by this sense thatintellectual anarchists, among whom I would number Dale, and poets, primarily rebel. But--and it is this rather than his undoubtedintellectual gifts or his dogmatic definitions of good and evil thatdefinitely separated Dale from the normal men--there can be no doubtthat he felt his lack of a sense of humour bitterly. In every word heever said, in every line he ever wrote, I detect a painful strivingafter this mysterious sense, that enabled his neighbours, fools as heundoubtedly thought them, to laugh and weep and follow the faith oftheir hearts without conscious realisation of their ownexistence and the problems it induced. By dint of study and strenuousobservation he achieved, as any man may achieve, a considerabledegree of wit, though to the last his ignorance of the audience whomhe served and despised, prevented him from judging the effect of hissallies without experiment. But try as he might the finer jewel layfar beyond his reach. Strong men fight themselves when they can findno fitter adversary; but in all the history of literature there is nostranger spectacle than this lifelong contest between Dale, theintellectual anarch and pioneer of supermen, and Dale, the poorlonely devil who wondered what made people happy. 

I have said that the struggle was lifelong, but it must be added thatit was always unequal. The knowledge that in his secret heart hedesired this quality, the imperfection of imperfections, only servedto make Dale's attack on the complacency of his contemporaries morebitter. He ridiculed their achievements, their ambitions, and theirlove with a fury that awakened in them a mild curiosity, but by nomeans affected their comfort. Moreover, the very vehemence withwhich he demanded their contempt deprived him of much of his force asa critic, for they justly wondered why a man should waste hislifetime in attacking them if they were indeed so worthless. Actually, they felt, Dale was a great deal more engaged with hisaudience than many of the imaginative writers whom he affected todespise for their sycophancy. And, especially towards the end of hislife when his powers perhaps were weakening, the devices which heused to arouse the irritation of his contemporaries became more andmore childishly artificial, less and less effective. He was like oneof those actors who feel that they cannot hold the attention of theiraudience unless they are always doing something, though nothing ismore monotonous than mannered vivacity. 

Dale, then, was a man who was very anxious to be modern, but at thesame time had not wholly succeeded in conquering his æesthetic sense. He had constituted himself high priest of the most puritanical andremote of all creeds, yet there was that in his blood that rebelledceaselessly against the intellectual limits he had voluntarilyaccepted. The result in terms of art was chaos. Possessed of anintellect of great analytic and destructive force, he was almostentirely lacking in imagination, and he was therefore unable to raisehis work to a plane in which the mutually combative elements of hisnature might have been reconciled. His light moments of envy, anger, and vanity passed into the crucible to come forth unchanged. Helacked the magic wand, and his work never took wings above hisconception. It is in vain to seek in any of his plays or novels, tracts or prefaces, for the product of inspiration, the divine giftthat enables one man to write with the common pen of humanity. Hecould only employ his curiously perfect technique in reproducing thewayward flashes of a mind incapable of consecutive thought. He neverattempted--and this is a hard saying--to produce any work beautifulin itself; while the confusion of his mind, and the vanity that neverallowed him to ignore the effect his work might produce on hisaudience, prevented him from giving clear expression to his creed. His work will appeal rather to the student of men than to thestudent of art, and, wantonly incoherent though it often is, must beheld to constitute a remarkable human document. 

It is strange to reflect that among his contemporary admirers Dalewas credited with an intellect of unusual clarity, for theexamination of any of his plays impresses one with the number andmutual destructiveness of his motives for artistic expression. Anoted debater, he made frequent use of the device of attacking theweakness of the other man's speech, rather than the weakness ofthe other man's argument. His prose was good, though at its bestso impersonal that it recalled the manner of an exceptionallywell-written leading article. At its worst it was marred bynumerous vulgarities and errors of taste, not always, it is to befeared, intentional. His attitude on this point was typical of hisstrange blindness to the necessity of a pure artistic ideal. Hecommitted these extravagances, he would say, in order to irritatehis audience into a condition of mental alertness. As a matter offact, he generally made his readers more sorry than angry, and hedid not realise that even if he had been successful it was but apoor reward for the wanton spoiling of much good work. Heproclaimed himself to be above criticism, but he was only toooften beneath it. Revolting against the dignity, not infrequentlypompous, of his fellow-men of letters, he played the part of clownwith more enthusiasm than skill. It is intellectual arrogance in aclever man to believe that he can play the fool with successmerely because he wishes it. 

There is no need for me to enter into detail with regard to Dale'spersonal appearance; the caricaturists did him rather more thanjustice, the photographers rather less. In his younger days hesuggested a gingerbread man that had been left too long in the sun;towards the end he affected a cultured and elaborate ruggedness thatmade him look like a duke or a market gardener. Like most clever men, he had good eyes. 

Nor is it my purpose to add more than a word to the publishedaccounts of his death. There is something strangely pitiful in thatlast desperate effort to achieve humour. We have all read the accountof his own death that he dictated from the sick-bed--cold, epigrammatic, and, alas! characteristically lacking in taste. Andonce more it was his fate to make us rather sorry than angry. 

In the third scene of the second act of "Henry V. , " a play writtenby an author whom Dale pretended to despise, Dame Quickly describesthe death of Falstaff in words that are too well known to needquotation. It was thus and no otherwise that Dale died. It is thusthat every man dies. 

Blue Blood

He sat in the middle of the great café with his head supportedon his hands, miserable even to bitterness. Inwardly he cursed theancestors who had left him little but a great name and a small andridiculous body. He thought of his father, whose expensiveeccentricities had amused his fellow-countrymen at the cost of hisfortune; his mother, for whom death had been a blessing; hisgrandparents and his uncles, in whom no man had found any good. Butmost of all he cursed himself, for whose follies even heredity mightnot wholly account. He recalled the school where he had made nofriends, the University where he had taken no degree. Since he hadleft Oxford, his aimless, hopeless life, profligate, butdishonourable, perhaps, only by accident, had deprived even his titleof any social value, and one by one his very acquaintances hadleft him to the society of broken men and the women who are anythingbut light. And these, and here perhaps the root of his bitternesslay, even these recognised him only as a victim for their mockery, athing more poor than themselves, whereon they could satisfy the angerof their tortured souls. And his last misery lay in this: that hehimself could find no day in his life to admire, no one past dream tocherish, no inmost corner of his heart to love. The lowest tramp, theleast-heeded waif of the night, might have some ultimate pride, buthe himself had nothing, nothing whatever. He was a dream-pauper, anemotional bankrupt. 

With a choked sob he drained his brandy and told the waiter to bringhim another. There had been a period in his life when he had beenable to find some measure of sentimental satisfaction in the stuporof drunkenness. In those days, through the veil of illusion whichalcohol had flung across his brain, he had been able to regard thecontempt of the men as the intimacy of friendship, the scorn of thewomen as the laughter of light love. But now drink gave himnothing but the mordant insight of morbidity, which cut through hisrotten soul like cheese. Yet night after night he came to this place, to be tortured afresh by the ridicule of the sordid frequenters, andby the careless music of the orchestra which told him of a flowerlessspring and of a morning which held for him no hope. For his lastemotion rested in this self-inflicted pain; he could only breathefreely under the lash of his own contempt. 

Idly he let his dull eyes stray about the room, from table to table, from face to face. Many there he knew by sight, from none could hehope for sympathy or even companionship. In his bitterness he enviedthe courage of the cowards who were brave enough to seek oblivion orpunishment in death. Dropping his eyes to his soft, unlovely hands, he marvelled that anything so useless should throb with life, and yethe realised that he was afraid of physical pain, terrified at thethought of death. There were dim ancestors of his whose valour hadthrilled the songs of minstrels and made his name lovely in theglowing folly of battles. But now he knew that he was a coward, andeven in the knowledge he could find no comfort. It is not given toevery man to hate himself gladly. 

The music and the laughter beat on his sullen brain with a mockinginsistence, and he trembled with impotent anger at the apparenthappiness of humanity. Why should these people be merry when he wasmiserable, what right had the orchestra to play a chorus of triumphover the stinging emblems of his defeat? He drank brandy afterbrandy, vainly seeking to dull the nausea of disgust which hadstricken his worn nerves; but the adulterated spirit merely maddenedhis brain with the vision of new depths of horror, while his bodylay below, a mean, detestable thing. Had he known how to pray hewould have begged that something might snap. But no man may win tofaith by means of hatred alone, and his heart was cold as the marbletable against which he leant. There was no more hope in theworld. . . . 

When he came out of the café, the air of the night was so pureand cool on his face, and the lights of the square were so tender tohis eyes, that for a moment his harsh mood was softened. And in thatmoment he seemed to see among the crowd that flocked by a beautifulface, a face touched with pearls, and the inner leaves of pinkrosebuds. He leant forward eagerly. "Christine!" he cried, "Christine!"

Then the illusion passed, and, smitten by the anger of the pitilessstars, he saw that he was looking upon a mere woman, a woman of theearth. He fled from her smile with a shudder. 

As he went it seemed to him that the swaying houses buffeted himabout as a child might play with a ball. Sometimes they threw himagainst men, who cursed him and bruised his soft body with theirfists. Sometimes they tripped him up and hurled him upon the stonesof the pavement. Still he held on, till the Embankment broke beforehim with the sudden peace of space, and he leant against theparapet, panting and sick with pain, but free from the tyranny ofthe houses. 

Beneath him the river rolled towards the sea, reticent butmore alive, it seemed, than the deeply painful thing which fate hadattached to his brain. He pictured himself tangled in the darkperplexity of its waters, he fancied them falling upon his face likea girl's hair, till they darkened his eyes and choked the mouthwhich, even now, could not breathe fast enough to satisfy him. Thethought displeased him, and he turned away from the place that heldpeace for other men but not for him. From the shadow of one of theseats a woman's voice reached him, begging peevishly for money. 

"I have none, " he said automatically. Then he remembered and flungcoins, all the money he had, into her lap. "I give it to you becauseI hate you!" he shrieked, and hurried on lest her thanks should spoilhis spite. 

Then the black houses and the warped streets had him in their griponce more, and sported with him till his consciousness waxed to onewhite-hot point of pain. Overhead the stars were laughing quietly inthe fields of space, and sometimes a policeman or a chance passer-bylooked curiously at his lurching figure, but he only knew thatlife was hurting him beyond endurance, and that he yet endured. Upand down the ice-cold corridors of his brain, thought, formless andtimeless, passed like a rodent flame. Now he was the universe, a vastthing loathsome with agony, now he was a speck of dust, an atom whoseinfinite torment was imperceptible even to God. Always there wassomething--something conscious of the intolerable evil called life, something that cried bitterly to be uncreated. Always, while his soulbeat against the bars, his body staggered along the streets, a thinghelpless, unguided. 

There is an hour before dawn when tired men and women die, and withthe coming of this hour his spirit found a strange release frompain. Once more he realised that he was a man, and, bruised andweary as he was, he tried to collect the lost threads of reason, which the night had torn from him. Facing him he saw a vast buildingdimly outlined against the darkness, and in some way it served totouch a faint memory in his dying brain. For a while he wanderedamongst the shadows, and then he knew that it was the keep ofa castle, his castle, and that high up where a window shone upon thenight a girl was waiting for him, a girl with a face of pearls androses. Presently she came to the window and looked out, dressed allin white for her love's sake. He stood up in his armour and flashedhis sword towards the envying stars. 

"It is I, my love!" he cried. "I am here. "

And there, before the dawn had made the shadows of the Law Courtsgrey, they found him; bruised and muddy and daubed with blood, without the sword and spurs of his honour, lacking the scented tokenof his love. A thing in no way tragic, for here was no misfortune, but merely the conclusion of Nature's remorseless logic. For centuryafter century those of his name had lived, sheltered by the prowessof their ancestors from the trivial hardships and afflictions thatmake us men. And now he lay on the pavement, stiff and cold, a babethat had cried itself to sleep because it could not understand, silent until the morning. 

Fate And The Artist

The workmen's dwellings stood in the northwest of London, inquaint rivalry with the comfortable ugliness of the Maida Vale blocksof flats. They were fairly new and very well built, with wide stonestaircases that echoed all day to the impatient footsteps of children, and with a flat roof that served at once as a playground for them anda drying-ground for their mothers' washing. In hot weather it waspleasant enough to play hide-and-seek or follow-my-leader up and downthe long alleys of cool white linen, and if a sudden gust of wind orsome unexpected turn of the game set the wet sheets flapping in thechildren's faces, their senses were rather tickled than annoyed. 

To George, mooning in a corner of the railings that seemed to keep allLondon in a cage, these games were hardly more important than theshoutings and whistlings that rose from the street below. It seemed tohim that all his life--he had lived eleven years--he had been standingin a corner watching other people engaging in meaningless ploys andantics. The sun was hot, and yet the children ran about and madethemselves hotter, and he wondered, as when he had been in bed withone of his frequent illnesses he had wondered at the grown-up folk whocame and went, moving their arms and legs and speaking with theirmouths, when it was possible to lie still and quiet and feel themoments ticking themselves off in one's forehead. As he rested in hiscorner, he was conscious of the sharp edge of the narrow stone ledgeon which he was sitting and the thin iron railings that pressed intohis back; he smelt the evil smell of hot London, and the soapy odourof the washing; he saw the glitter of the dust, and the noises of theplace beat harshly upon his ears, but he could find no meaning in itall. Life spoke to him with a hundred tongues, and all the while hewas longing for silence. To the older inhabitants of the tenements heseemed a morbid little boy, unhappily too delicate for sense tobe safely knocked into him; his fellow-children would have ignored himcompletely if he had not had strange fancies that made interestingstories and sometimes inspired games. On the whole, George was lonelywithout knowing what loneliness meant. 

All day long the voice of London throbbed up beyond the bars, andGeorge would regard the chimneys and the housetops and the section oflively street that fell within his range with his small, keen eyes, and wonder why the world did not forthwith crumble into silent, peaceful dust, instead of groaning and quivering in continual unrest. But when twilight fell and the children were tired of playing, theywould gather round him in his corner by the tank and ask him to tellthem stories. This tank was large and open and held rain water for theuse of the tenants, and originally it had been cut off from the restof the roof by some special railings of its own; but two of therailings had been broken, and now the children could creep through andsit round the tank at dusk, like Eastern villagers round the villagewell. 

And George would tell them stories--queer stories with twistedfaces and broken backs, that danced and capered merrily enough as arule, but sometimes stood quite still and made horrible grimaces. Thechildren liked the cheerful moral stories better, such as Arthur'sBoots. 

"Once upon a time, " George would begin, "there was a boy calledArthur, who lived in a house like this, and always tied hisbootlaces with knots instead of bows. One night he stood on theroof and wished he had wings like a sparrow, so that he couldfly away over the houses. And a great wind began, so that everybodysaid there was a storm, and suddenly Arthur found he had a littlepair of wings, and he flew away with the wind over the houses. Andpresently he got beyond the storm to a quiet place in the sky, andArthur looked up and saw all the stars tied to heaven with littlebits of string, and all the strings were tied in bows. And thiswas done so that God could pull the string quite easily when Hewanted to, and let the stars fall. On fine nights you can see themdropping. Arthur thought that the angels must have very neatfingers to tie so many bows, but suddenly, while he was looking, his feet began to feel heavy, and he stooped down to take off hisboots; but he could not untie the knots quick enough, and soon hestarted falling very fast. And while he was falling, he heard thewind in the telegraph wires, and the shouts of the boys who sellpapers in the street, and then he fell on the top of a house. Andthey took him to the hospital, and cut off his legs, and gave himwooden ones instead. But he could not fly any more because theywere too heavy. "

For days afterwards all the children would tie their bootlaces inbows. 

Sometimes they would all look into the dark tank, and George wouldtell them about the splendid fish that lived in its depths. If thetank was only half full, he would whisper to the fish, and thechildren would hear its indistinct reply. But when the tank was fullto the brim, he said that the fish was too happy to talk, and he woulddescribe the beauty of its appearance so vividly that all the childrenwould lean over the tank and strain their eyes in a desperate effortto see the wonderful fish. But no one ever saw it clearly exceptGeorge, though most of the children thought they had seen its taildisappearing in the shadows at one time or another. 

It was doubtful how far the children believed his stories; probably, not having acquired the habit of examining evidence, they werecontent to accept ideas that threw a pleasant glamour on life. But thecoming of Jimmy Simpson altered this agreeable condition of mind. Jimmy was one of those masterful stupid boys who excel at games andphysical contests, and triumph over intellectual problems by sheerbraggart ignorance. From the first he regarded George with contempt, and when he heard him telling his stories he did not conceal hisdisbelief. 

"It's a lie, " he said; "there ain't no fish in the tank. "

"I have seen it, I tell you, " said George. 

Jimmy spat on the asphalt rudely. 

"I bet no one else has, " he said. 

George looked round his audience, but their eyes did not meet his. They felt that they might have been mistaken in believing thatthey had seen the tail of the fish. And Jimmy was a very good man withhis fists. "Liar!" said Jimmy at last triumphantly, and walked away. Being masterful, he led the others with him, and George brooded by thetank for the rest of the evening in solitude. 

Next day George went up to Jimmy confidently. "I was right about thefish, " he said. "I dreamed about it last night. "

"Rot!" said Jimmy; "dreams are only made-up things; they don't meananything. "

George crept away sadly. How could he convince such a man? All daylong he worried over the problem, and he woke up in the middle of thenight with it throbbing in his brain. And suddenly, as he lay in hisbed, doubt came to him. Supposing he had been wrong, supposing he hadnever seen the fish at all? This was not to be borne. He crept quietlyout of the flat, and tiptoed upstairs to the roof. The stone was verycold to his feet. 

There were so many things in the tank that at first, George could notsee the fish, but at last he saw it gleaming below the moon and thestars, larger and even more beautiful than he had said. "I knew Iwas right, " he whispered, as he crept back to bed. In the morning hewas very ill. 

Meanwhile blue day succeeded blue day, and while the water grew lowerin the tank, the children, with Jimmy for leader, had almost forgottenthe boy who had told them stories. Now and again one or other of themwould say that George was very, very ill, and then they would go onwith their game. No one looked in the tank now that they knew therewas nothing in it, till it occurred one day to Jimmy that the dryweather should have brought final confirmation of his scepticism. Leaving his comrades at the long jump, he went to George's neglectedcorner and peeped into the tank. Sure enough it was almost dry, and, he nearly shouted with surprise, in the shallow pool of sooty waterthere lay a large fish, dead, but still gleaming with rainbow colours. 

Jimmy was strong and stupid, but not ill-natured, and, recallingGeorge's illness, it occurred to him that it would be a decent thingto go and tell him he was right. He ran downstairs and knocked on thedoor of the flat where George lived. George's big sister openedit, but the boy was too excited to see that her eyes were wet. "Oh, miss, " he said breathlessly, "tell George he was right about the fish. I've seen it myself!"

"Georgy's dead, " said the girl. 

The Great Man

To the people who do not write it must seem odd that men and womenshould be willing to sacrifice their lives in the endeavour tofind new arrangements and combinations of words with which toexpress old thoughts and older emotions, yet that is not an unfairstatement of the task of the literary artist. Words--symbols thatrepresent the noises that human beings make with their tongues andlips and teeth--lie within our grasp like the fragments of ajig-saw puzzle, and we fit them into faulty pictures until our handsgrow weary and our eyes can no longer pretend to see the truth. Inorder to illustrate an infinitesimal fraction of our lives bymeans of this preposterous game we are willing to sacrifice allthe rest. While ordinary efficient men and women are enjoying thepromise of the morning, the fulfilment of the afternoon, thetranquillity of evening, we are still trying to discover a fittingepithet for the dew of dawn. For us Spring paves the woods withbeautiful words rather than flowers, and when we look into theeyes of our mistress we see nothing but adjectives. Love is anoccasion for songs; Death but the overburdened father of all oursaddest phrases. We are of those who are born crying into theworld because they cannot speak, and we end, like Stevenson, bylooking forward to our death because we have written a goodepitaph. Sometimes in the course of our frequent descents fromheaven to the waste-paper basket we feel that we lose too much toaccomplish so little. Does a handful of love-songs really outweighthe smile of a pretty girl, or a hardly-written romance compensatethe author for months of lost adventure? We have only one life tolive, and we spend the greater part of it writing the history ofdead hours. Our lives lack balance because we find it hard todiscover a mean between the triolet we wrote last I night and thebig book we are going to start tomorrow, and also because livingonly with our heads we tend to become top-heavy. We justify ourpresent discomfort with the promise of a bright future of flowersand sunshine and gladdest life, though we know that in the gardenof art there are many chrysalides and few butterflies. Few of usare fortunate enough to accomplish anything that was in the leastworth doing, so we fall back on the arid philosophy that it iseffort alone that counts. 

Luckily--or suicide would be the rule rather than the exceptionfor artists--the long process of disillusionment is broken byhours when even the most self-critical feel nobly and indubitablygreat; and this is the only reward that most artists ever have fortheir labours, if we set a higher price on art than money. On thewhole, I am inclined to think that the artist is fully rewarded, for the common man can have no conception of the Joy that is to befound in belonging, though but momentarily and illusively, to thearistocracy of genius. To find the just word for all our emotions, to realise that our most trivial thought is illimitably creative, to feel that it is our lot to keep life's gladdest promises, tosee the great souls of men and women, steadfast in existence asstars in a windless pool--these, indeed, are no ordinarypleasures. Moreover, these hours of our illusory greatness endowus in their passing with a melancholy that is not tainted withbitteress. We have nothing to regret; we are in truth the richerfor our rare adventure. We have been permitted to explore theultimate possibilities of our nature, and if we might not keepthis newly-discovered territory, at least we did not return fromour travels with empty hands. Something of the glamour lingers, something perhaps of the wisdom, and it is with a heightenedpassion, a fiercer enthusiasm, that we set ourselves once more toour life-long task of chalking pink salmon and pinker sunsets onthe pavements of the world. 

I once met an Englishman in the forest that starts outside Brusselsand stretches for a long day's journey across the hills. We found alittle café under the trees, and sat in the sun talking about modernEnglish literature all the afternoon. In this way we discovered thatwe had a common standpoint from which we judged works of art, thoughour judgments differed pleasantly and provided us with materialsfor agreeable discussion. By the time we had divided three bottles ofGueze Lambic, the noble beer of Belgium, we had already sketched out ascheme for the ideal literary newspaper. In other words, we hadachieved friendship. 

When the afternoon grew suddenly cold, the Englishman led me off totea at his house, which was half-way up the hill out of Woluwe. Itwas one of those modern country cottages that Belgian architectssteal openly and without shame from their English confreres. We weremet at the garden gate by his daughter, a dark-haired girl offifteen or sixteen, so unreasonably beautiful that she made adisillusioned scribbler feel like a sad line out of one of thesaddest poems of Francis Thompson. In my mind I christened herMonica, because I did not like her real name. The house, with itsold furniture, its library, where the choice of books was clearlydictated by individual prejudices and affections, and itsunambitious parade of domestic happiness, heightened my melancholy. While tea was being prepared Monica showed me the garden. Onlya few daffodils and crocuses were in bloom, but she led me to therose garden, and told me that in the summer she could pick a greatbasket of roses every day. I pictured Monica to myself, gatheringher roses on a breathless summer afternoon, and returned to thehouse feeling like a battened version of the Reverend LaurenceSterne. I knew that I had gathered all my roses, and I thoughtregretfully of the chill loneliness of the world that lay beyond thelimits of this paradise. 

This mood lingered with me during tea, and it was not till thatmeal was over that the miracle happened. I do not know whether itwas the Englishman or his wife that wrought the magic: or perhapsit was Monica, nibbling "speculations" with her sharp white teeth;but at all events I was led with delicate diplomacy to talk aboutmyself, and I presently realised that I was performing thegrateful labour really well. My words were warmed into life by aneloquence that is not ordinarily mine, my adjectives were neithercommonplace nor far-fetched, my adverbs fell into their socketswith a sob of joy. I spoke of myself with a noble sympathy, acompassion so intense that it seemed divinely altruistic. Andgradually, as the spirit of creation woke in my blood, I revealed, trembling between a natural sensitiveness and a generousabandonment of restraint, the inner life of a man of genius. 

I passed lightly by his misunderstood childhood to concentrate mysympathies on the literary struggles of his youth. I spoke of theignoble environment, the material hardships, the masterpieces writtenat night to be condemned in the morning, the songs of his heart thatwere too great for his immature voice to sing; and all the while Ibade them watch the fire of his faith burning with a constant andquenchless flame. I traced the development of his powers, andinstanced some of his poems, my poems, which I recited so well thatthey sounded to me, and I swear to them also, like staves from anangelic hymn-book. I asked their compassion for the man who, havingsuch things in his heart, was compelled to waste his hours in sordidjournalistic labours. 

So by degrees I brought them to the present time, when, fatigued bya world that would not acknowledge the truth of his message, the man of genius was preparing to retire from life, in order todevote himself to the composition of five or six masterpieces. Idescribed these masterpieces to them in outline, with a suggestivedetail dashed in here and there to show how they would be finished. Nothing is easier than to describe unwritten literary masterpiecesin outline; but by that time I had thoroughly convinced my audienceand myself, and we looked upon these things as completed books. Theatmosphere was charged with the spirit of high endeavour, ofwonderful accomplishment. I heard the Englishman breathing deeply, and through the dusk I was aware of the eyes of Monica, the wide, vague eyes of a young girl in which youth can find exactly what itpleases. 

It is a good thing to be great once or twice in our lives, and thatnight I was wise enough to depart before the inevitable anti-climax. At the gate the Englishman pressed me warmly by the hand and beggedme to honour his house with my presence again. His wife echoed thewish, and Monica looked at me with those vacant eyes, that but a fewyears ago I would have charged with the wine of my song. As I stoodin the tram on my way back to Brussels I felt like a man recoveringfrom a terrible debauch, and I knew that the brief hour of my pridewas over, to return, perhaps, no more. Work was impossible to a manwho had expressed considerably more than he had to express, so I wentinto a café where there was a string band to play sentimental musicover the corpse of my genius. Chance took me to a table presided overby a waiter I singularly detested, and the last embers of mygreatness enabled me to order my drink in a voice so passionate thathe looked at me aghast and fled. By the time he returned with my hockthe tale was finished, and I tried to buy his toleration with anenormous _pourboire_. 

No; I will return to that house on the hill above Woluwe no more, noteven to see Monica standing on tiptoe to pick her roses. For I haveleft a giant's robe hanging on a peg in the hall, and I would nothave those amiable people see how utterly incapable I am of fillingit under normal conditions. I feel, besides, a kind of sentimentaltenderness for this illusion fated to have so short a life. I am noHerod to slaughter babies, and it pleases me to think that it lingersyet in that delightful house with the books and the old furniture andMonica, even though I myself shall probably never see it again, eventhough the Englishman watches the publishers' announcements for themasterpieces that will never appear. 

A Wet Day

As we grow older it becomes more and more apparent that our momentsare the ghosts of old moments, our days but pale repetitions of daysthat we have known in the past. It might almost be said that after acertain age we never meet a stranger or win to a new place. Thepalace of our soul, grown larger let us hope with the years, ishaunted by little memories that creep out of corners to peep at uswistfully when we are most sure that we are alone. Sometimes wecannot hear the voice of the present for the whisperings of the past;sometimes the room is so full of ghosts that we can hardly breathe. And yet it is often difficult to find the significance of these deaddays, restored to us to disturb our sense of passing time. Why haveour minds kept secret these trivial records so many years to givethem to us at last when they have no apparent consequence? Perhaps itis only that we are not clever enough to read the riddle; perhapsthese trifles that we have remembered unconsciously year after yearare in truth the tremendous forces that have made our lives what theyare. 

Standing at the window this morning and watching the rain, I suddenlybecame conscious of a wet morning long ago when I stood as I stoodnow and saw the drops sliding one after another down the steamypanes. I was a boy of eight years old, dressed in a sailor suit, andwith my hair clipped quite short like a French boy's, and my rightknee was stiff with a half-healed cut where I had fallen on thegravel path under the schoolroom window, it was a really wet, greyday. I could hear the rain dripping from the fir-trees on to thescullery roof, and every now and then a gust of wind drove the raindown on the soaked lawn with a noise like breaking surf. I could hearthe water gurgling in the pipe that was hidden by the ivy, and I sawwith interest that one of the paths was flooded, so that a canal ranbetween the standard rose bushes and recalled pictures of Venice. Ithought it would be nice if it rained truly hard and flooded thehouse, so that we should all have to starve for three weeks, and thenbe rescued excitingly in boats; but I had not really any hope. Behindme in the schoolroom my two brothers were playing chess, but had notyet started quarrelling, and in a corner my little sister waspatiently beating a doll. There was a fire in the grate, but it wasone of those sombre, smoky fires in which it is impossible to takeany interest. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked very slowly, and Irealised that an eternity of these long seconds separated me fromdinner-time. I thought I would like to go out. 

The enterprise presented certain difficulties and dangers, but nonethat could not be surpassed. I would have to steal down to the halland get my boots and waterproof on unobserved. I would have to openthe front door without making too much noise, for the other doorswere well guarded by underlings, and I would have to run down thefront drive under the eyes of many windows. Once beyond the gate Iwould be safe, for the wetness of the day would secure me fromdangerous encounters. Walking in the rain would be pleasant thanstaying in the dull schoolroom, where life remained unchanged for aquarter of an hour at a time; and I remembered that there was alittle wood near our house in which I had never been when it wasraining hard. Perhaps I would meet the magician for whom I had lookedso often in vain on sunny days, for it was quite likely that hepreferred walking in bad weather when no one else was about. It wouldbe nice to hear the drops of rain falling on the roof of the trees, and to be quite warm and dry underneath. Perhaps the magician wouldgive me a magic wand, and I would do things like the conjurer lastChristmas. 

Certainly I would be punished when I got home, for even if I were notmissed they would see that my boots were muddy and that my waterproofwas wet. I would have no pudding for dinner and be sent to bed in theafternoon: but these things had happened to me before, and though Ihad not liked them at the time, they did not seem very terrible inretrospect. And life was so dull in the schoolroom that wet morningwhen I was eight years old!

And yet I did not go out, but stood hesitating at the window, whilewith every gust earth seemed to fling back its curls of rain from itsshining forehead. To stand on the brink of adventure is interestingin itself, and now that I could think over the details of myexpedition was no longer bored. So I stayed dreaming till the goldenmoment for action was passed, and a violent exclamation from one ofthe chess-players called me back to a prosaic world. In a second theboard was overturned and the players were locked in battle. My littlesister, who had already the feminine craving for tidiness, crept outof her corner and meekly gathered the chessmen from under the feet ofthe combatants. I had seen it all before, and while I led my forcesto the aid of the brother with whom at the moment I had some sort ofalliance, I reflected that I would have done better to dare theadventure and set forth into the rainy world. 

And this morning when I stood at my window, and my memory a littlecruelly restored to this vision of a day long dead, I was still ofthe same opinion. Oh! I should have put on my boots and my waterproofand gone down to the little wood to meet the enchanter! He would havegiven me the cap of invisibility, the purse of Fortunatus, and a pairof seven-league boots. He would have taught me to conquer worlds, andto leave the easy triumphs of dreamers to madmen, philosophers, andpoets, He would have made me a man of action, a statesman, a soldier, a founder of cities or a digger of graves. For there are two kinds ofmen in the world when we have put aside the minor distinctions ofshape and colour. There are the men who do things and the men whodream about them. No man can be both a dreamer and a man of action, and we are called upon to determine what rôle we shall play in lifewhen we are too young to know what to do. 

I do not believe that it was a mere wantonness of memory thatpreserved the image of that hour with such affectionate detail, whereso many brighter and more eventful hours have disappeared for ever. It seems to me likely enough that that moment of hesitation beforethe schoolroom window determined a habit of mind that has kept medreaming ever since. For all my life I have preferred thought toaction; I have never run to the little wood; I have never met theenchanter. And so this morning, when Fate played me this trick and mydream was chilled for an instant by the icy breath of the past, I didnot rush out into the streets of life and lay about me with a flamingsword. No; I picked up my pen and wrote some words on a piece ofpaper and lulled my shocked senses with the tranquillity of theidlest dream of all.